


Exiled Heart

by thewightknight



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Light Angst, M/M, Not Dragon Age: Inquisition - Trespasser DLC Compliant, Pining, Slow Burn, for me at least
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-28
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:34:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21594682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewightknight/pseuds/thewightknight
Summary: From the first moment Hawke saw Sebastian Vael, he was smitten. As he grew to know the prince further, he only longed the more for that which he could not have. As fate tosses him this way and that he keeps coming back to the man he would love if given the chance. Little did he know where that fate would take him.
Relationships: Anders/Male Hawke, Bethany Hawke & Carver Hawke & Hawke, Male Hawke/Jean-Marc Stroud, Male Hawke/Sebastian Vael
Comments: 14
Kudos: 38





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> I started this fic back in January and I can't believe it's all done! I wouldn't have made it if it hadn't been for my cheering section - you know who you are. 
> 
> While I was writing it, I found I had certain dialogue bits that I'd written that fit better with Bethany and others that fit with Carver so I invoked author privilege and both of them survived Lothering. I'd originally planned for each section break to be a new chapter, but that would have made this over 30 chapters long, with some of them only being a couple hundred words or less and others a thousand words or more, so I decided to break it up into three parts. The fic is finished, with only a bit of editing still to do, and I'll post the next two chapters weekly.
> 
> Warning - as the tags say, characters will die along the way, as they do in game, because that's how the story went.

**_9:31, Kirkwall, Hightown, Chantry square_ **

“The Maker does exist,” Mal breathed as he watched the scene unfold before them. There could be no other reason for the perfection of the man who stood in front of the Chantry. His beauty shone from across the square and his every gesture spoke of great passion. He argued with the grand cleric as he nailed a piece of parchment to the Chanter’s board, and when she ripped it down, he pinned it back in place with an arrow. His skill with his bow increased his perfection to an unholy degree, in Mal’s opinion.

Mal couldn’t hear the words they exchanged, only the lilting tones of the man’s voice. Transfixed, he stared, until Carver elbowed him in the ribs.

“Snap out of it, brother. We’ve got things to do and no time for you to stand around mooning at people. We won’t get the coin we need like this.”

“Well, then,” said Mal, “maybe we should check the Chanter’s board? Maybe we’ll find a job there. C’mon.”

Carver rolled his eyes, but followed Mal across the courtyard.

“Look. I was right! A job!” Mal said, pulling the notice down. That earned him another eyeroll, but Mal ignored Carver as he read the parchment. “His most worthy highness, Prince Sebastian Vael, has provided instructions for anyone brave and noble enough to attempt eradication of the rabble who dared attack his family.” Grinning, he waved the paper under Carver’s nose. “Do this, report back to this prince’s man, and we’ll earn both gold and favor.”

Having an ally in the nobility would help in their efforts to regain the Amell estate, but Mal could admit to himself that his interest was more in the man with the bow than what his prince could do for them.

In Kirkwall, you had to spend coin to make coin. A few silvers pressed in the right palms, courtesy of Varric, yielded their strength and locations. In the space of two days the Flint Company was no more.

Mal tried to act nonchalant as they made their way to the Chantry. He had both Bethany and Carver in tow, because of course Carver had told Bethany about the prince’s man. She trotted along between them, taking two steps to her brothers’ one.

“What are you going to say, brother? Something witty, I hope?” Bethany grinned up at Mal with mischief in her eyes.

“You know he’s going to get all flustered and turn red and stammer,” Carver said. “He always does when he has a crush on someone.”

If Bethany hadn’t been between them, Mal would have tripped Carver. “I do not have a crush on this man. I’ve never even spoke to him.”

“Mal’s got a crush!” Bethany said in a singsong voice, and Mal shoved her into Carver. Carver caught her and they both laughed. The laughter was definitely directed at him. He didn’t care. Just a few more steps and then through the ornate set of doors and he’d be face to face with the most beautiful man in Thedas.

With the bounty sheet clenched in his hand, wrapped around the insignia he’d cut off of the mercenary leader’s tunic, he scanned the main floor. Bethany spotted the prince’s servant first, elbowing Mal in the ribs and pointing. “There he is, brother. Good luck!”

Taking a deep breath, Mal strode forward.

He knew he didn’t stammer, even after discovering that the man in front of him was not the prince’s servant, but the prince himself – Sebastian Vael of Starkhaven.

Mal couldn’t have said what passed his lips. The looks of surprise, then gratitude that washed over Sebastian’s face went straight through to his heart. Words were exchanged and Sebastian’s lilting voice danced around him. The prince pressed some coins into his hands and he wished heartily he’d taken his gloves off. He could feel the heat rising in his cheeks as he made his farewells, desperate now to escape before he made a fool of himself.

When they emerged into the daylight again, he sagged against one of the pillars outside the Chantry doors.

“Oooh! Not the prince’s man after all, but the prince himself! Prince Sebastian Vael,” Bethany cooed. “And you have his eternal gratitude! Play your cards right, brother, and we might not need this Deep Roads expedition after all.”

“You heard him, brat. He’s a prince without a country and has empty pockets to boot.” 

Leave it to Carver to rain on his parade.

“Right now, he does. His visit to the viscount may change all that,” Bethany shot back at her twin.

Mal interrupted their cheerful bickering. “No. We continue on with the expedition as planned.” He didn’t want Sebastian to save him. He didn’t want anyone to save him. The next time he saw Sebastian he vowed they’d be on equal terms.

Bethany wouldn’t be so easily deterred. “Prince Hawke. It has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

“Shush. His head’s big enough already.” Carver’s wry grin took the sting out of his words.

“So, brother, thinking about taking up anything else of his?” Bethany winked and Mal rubbed at his forehead. Innuendo from his baby sister reminded him that she wasn’t a baby anymore, and he didn’t want to follow that train of thought.

“Okay, that’s enough out of you two. We’ve got to follow up on that lead about a Grey Warden, and I still have this amulet to get rid of, so that means trekking back out to Sundermount.”

“Slave driver,” Carver grumbled, but fell in next to him as Mal headed down the chantry stairs.

**_9:31, Darktown, Anders’ clinic_ **

The Grey Warden wasn’t what he was expecting. Anders was a fellow mage, and a healer. That could prove useful. After agreeing to meet with Anders that night, he decided he’d had enough walking around for the day.

“We’re going back to the Chantry again, are we? Do you think your prince is staying there? Maybe we could find out where his quarters are?” Bethany asked.

“Yes, Bethany, I’m sure there’ll be time for a quickie before we rescue Anders’ friend,” Carver shot back, smirking.

“Ew!” Bethany said, clapping her hands over her ears. “Brother, I did not need to picture that!”

“You shouldn’t have brought it up then,” Carver said.

“Will you two please stop!” Mal shouted, a pained wrinkle between his eyebrows.

He really wished Bethany hadn’t mentioned such things. Now he was picturing it himself, digging his hands into Sebastian’s sleep-tousled hair and kissing him awake.

**_9:31, Kirkwall_ **

The weeks passed. When he wasn’t out scrounging for coin, Mal haunted the Chantry. He attended services whenever he could, his focus narrowing in on Sebastian in the congregation and finding a place in a pew—not too close, but not so far away that he couldn’t hear Sebastian’s voice raised in song. Nobody teased him about his new-found piety, but he caught glances exchanged between the twins and his mother, because of course they’d told Leandra. Gamlen, at least, was indifferent.

Every now and then Sebastian would nod at him in passing, and he’d be graced with that smile that reaffirmed the Maker’s existence.

Examining his face after shaving in the rippled piece of metal that served them for a mirror, Mal sighed. He wasn’t bad looking, he knew. Some had called him handsome, even. He’d never broken his nose throughout all the years of dragging Carver out of brawls, a fact he was rather proud of. Leandra called the strong jut of his jaw heroic. Carver called it thuggish.

He was all shades of brown; tawny hair, skin kissed by the sun, and amber eyes. That same sun had cursed or blessed him, depending on who you asked, with freckles across the bridge of his nose and on his cheeks; it had streaked his hair with gold. He’d grown his hair out to his shoulders in the past year. He kept up in a tail most times, but he’d caught sidelong glances of appreciation on those times when he left it loose, which had kept him from cutting it short again. It was vanity, and a dangerous one, for someone who made their living fighting, but every time he held the knife to the strands he hesitated, and then put it away.

Cheap metal wouldn’t tell him whether a prince might find him attractive. His siblings wouldn’t either, even if he’d dared to ask them. Bethany would collapse in giggles and Carver would roll his eyes and throw insults at him.

“Well, at least you think I’m gorgeous, don’t you, boy?” he asked Woof. The mabari grinned up at him, tongue hanging out one side of his mouth.

**_9:31, The Hanged Man_ **

It took weeks, but Mal scraped it together, bit by bit. When they were only a few gold coins short, he dragged Bethany and Carver out to the Hanged Man. A conversation needed to be had where their mother wouldn’t hear, and the tavern was as good a place as any. Over pitchers of sour beer, he laid it out for them.

“We can’t all go. Someone has to stay here to look after Mother.”

Bethany and Carver looked at him, then at each other, and back again at him.

“Bartrand will only let me bring two people along. Anders has volunteered to come.” That had surprised him. Anders had made no secret of his distaste for the Deep Roads. But he’d shown up on their doorstep one night last week and had told Mal in no uncertain terms that Mal had better bring him. “That means two mages already.” 

“So, you need someone who can get a bit more physical.” Carver tried to sound bored but his excitement bled through.

“More like he needs a bigger body to hide behind,” Bethany said, grinning up at her twin.

“Bethany,” Mal began, but Bethany cut him off.

“No, it’s all right. I’m a bit relieved, actually. Gamlen’s house isn’t much, but it’s better than where you’re going. I’ll be happy to skip roughing it in the Deep Roads.” Bethany started to take a drink but when she raised her mug she wrinkled her nose at the smell and set the tankard down untasted.

“Our bedrolls won’t have fleas,” Carver shot back.

Before they could start arguing, Mal cut in. “That’s settled, then. You come with the expedition, Carver, and Bethany, you’ll take care of mother.” Mal raised his tankard, and his siblings did the same. They clinked them together, then took drinks, each of them grimacing and shaking their heads as the poor stuff hit the backs of their throats.

**_9:31, Coming Home from the Deep Roads_ **

The pack was heavy with more than the gold and gems it contained. It dragged him down with every step. Its contents would set them up for life, but what life would they have now, with Carver gone? He might not ever know, Anders had said, whether or not Carver survived his Joining.

If someone decided to mug him, he had no reserves left to fight them off. His reputation was such now, though, that even as strung out as he must look, footpads gave him a wide berth. It took the last of his energy to mount the stairs to Gamlen’s hovel. He might have stood out there indefinitely if Woof hadn’t started whining, shoving his giant head under Mal’s hand and slobbering all over it.

“All right, Woof. We’re going in.”

Leandra’s face lit up when he entered, and then her eyes searched the space behind him.

“Where’s Carver, Mal? Malcolm? Where is your brother?”

“He’s not dead. At least I hope he’s not.” Mal let the pack slip from his shoulders and it hit the ground with a thud that shook the whole flimsy building. Leandra didn’t notice. Her intake of breath sounded louder in Mal’s ears than the impact. “He … the darkspawn. Some of the blood got into a wound. He had the taint.”

“Oh, no!” Leandra started sobbing, burying her face in her hands. He crossed the room to her, taking her in his arms, trying to comfort her.

“Anders knew where some Grey Wardens could be found. They agreed to take him. It was a chance. The only chance. I’m sorry, Mother. So sorry.” Her whole body shook, and his tears started to fall too.

When the storm had passed, when he’d helped her up from the floor where they’d collapsed, feeling the ache in every single one of his bones, Mal had a sudden realization.

“Mother? Where’s Bethany?”

**_9:32 to 9:34, The Chantry_ **

It had only been a few months, but he felt like years had passed. The gold from the expedition had gotten Leandra her audience with the viscount, and within fairly short order the estate had been restored to them. He’d paid to have the place scrubbed from top to bottom and had ended up needing to remove all of the carpeting and replace most of the other furnishings, but when it was done and he’d led Leandra in, the look on her face had made it all worthwhile. Well, almost all.

The money from the Bone Pit, as well as a few other judicious investments, kept their coffers full. There were other properties his family had owned, and with a bit of work and Varric’s help, he got them up and running again. Leandra would never want for anything for the rest of her life.

The months flew by and Mal got caught up in their new life. It was nice, not having to struggle and scrape by. It was also a bit boring, he admitted to himself in the privacy of his thoughts. But as the months turned into years, it looked like the Hawke family troubles were over at last.

The first time he went back to the Chantry it was more by habit than with any real purpose. Mal always looked for a familiar head of auburn hair, even as he told himself he wasn’t looking. Sometimes he’d see Sebastian, but more often not. Those few glimpses were enough to keep him going back. Whenever he’d gone without seeing Sebastian for a time, he began to believe he’d imagined the perfection of him. Each time he saw Sebastian again it hit him anew.

Every now and then he’d stop in when no services were being conducted. Dropping a few coins in the collection box, he’d light candles. One for his father, in remembrance. One for Carver, who’d sent him a brief letter several months after the Deep Roads. One for Bethany, who he managed to visit from time to time. All his money might not have been enough to keep her out of the Circle – he’d never know, as they’d taken her before his return. It was enough, however, to allow her certain privileges. He felt guilty sometimes, knowing others who hadn’t had his good fortune, who lacked his rank and privilege, and never got to see their loved ones. That didn’t stop him from visiting his sister any chance he could.

One day at the Chantry, he’d been surprised to find Sebastian deep in conversation with the grand cleric, and even more when he heard his name spoken. The urge to eavesdrop was almost overwhelming and he fought it, trying to move away without them noticing, but Elthina spotted him and called him over.

He could hardly believe it when he realized what they were saying.

“Lord Harimann? The same Harimann who sent aid to Ferelden? He’s the one who had your family killed?” The man Mal had met didn’t seem capable of such an act. He’d impressed Mal during their brief interaction.

“It seems the orders were given after his death,” Sebastian said. “Lady Harimann was always jealous of my family, being royal while she was mere nobility, but I can’t imagine that pushing her into outright murder.” Even in the dim light of the Chantry, Sebastian’s eyes sparkled like jewels. It made it hard for Mal to focus on what he was saying. He managed to track the gist of it, though.

“I could accompany you,” Mal said. “You are the last of your line. You shouldn’t go alone.” The smile of gratitude Sebastian gave him made his knees wobble.

Sebastian proved to be no pampered prince. He rivaled Varric’s skill with his bow. Mal nearly took injury several times, too distracted by watching him. After the second time, Isabela smacked him on the back of the head in between stabbing demons.

“Head in the game and cock in your pants, Hawke, if you want to be around to stick it in something later,” she said. Sebastian was far enough away that he didn’t hear, thank the Maker. Mal didn’t allow himself to be distracted after that.

It was a demon, because of course it was. Its scream as Sebastian’s arrow pierced its heart raised the hairs on Mal’s arms. The words it had spoken hung in the air around them, and Sebastian’s face was pale as they made their way out.

Promises were made by the remaining Harimanns. Sebastian treated them with dignity and kindness, even in his current state. It was as they were leaving the cellar, weaving their way through the corpses that littered the floor, that something caught Mal’s eye.

“Sebastian. That bow? Isn’t that your family crest?”

“That’s my grandfather’s bow!”

There was a story there, but not one that Mal felt he should pursue here. “Maybe you can tell me about it sometime.”

“I would be honored.”

Mal snuck glances at Sebastian the whole way back to the Chantry. He tried to tell himself it was because he was worried about Sebastian’s mental state after all they had discovered, but even he knew he was lying.

They parted ways, but not before Mal put his foot in his mouth.

“I will offer my service to you here before I move on,” Sebastian said.

“I can think of a few services for you to perform.” He regretted the words as soon as they slipped out. Luckily, Sebastian didn’t seem to take offense. It might have been wishful thinking, but Sebastian even seemed a bit flustered. It was that, along with musings about how wild Sebastian might have been in his youth, that made sleep hard to come by that night.

**_9:34, The Blooming Rose_ **

****

It was the color of Jethann’s hair that drew him in one night. The courtesan remembered him, or at least he pretended to do so. Nothing else was right about him. Truth be told, his hair was a few shades lighter than the color that haunted him, but the sight of those auburn locks wrapped around his fingers as Jethann pleasured him still brought him off before Jethann had hardly begun. It could have been embarrassing, but instead he laughed as Jethann choked, caught by surprise.

“Sorry. It’s been forever,” Mal apologized, still chuckling.

“I’ll just take it as a sign of my extraordinary talents,” Jethann assured him. “Now, what other devilry do you have in store for me?”

The Blooming Rose stocked an astonishing array of scented oils, for a variety of purposes. Mal opted for a massage to round out his time. Jethann had clever fingers, and used them with a will, leaving Mal limp and sated a second time before the hour was out. He parted from Mal with a kiss and an invitation to return any time.

Mal never took him up on it.

**_9:34, The Hanged Man_ **

Isabela plunked down on the bench next to him, jostling him and spilling beer over his arm. “He fancies you, you know,” she said, nodding in Sebastian’s general direction.

“He does not.” Mal eyed the stuff in his tankard with distaste.

“He does too. Hasn’t taken his eyes off of you all night. Look!”

Sighing, he did look where she pointed. As expected, she was wrong. Sebastian was deep in some conversation with Fenris. This was the first time Sebastian had showed up for one of their gatherings. Having him here, with his beauty and elegance, made the Hanged Man look even shabbier than usual. Mal had been trying not to stare at him all evening, with mixed success.

“Not there, you ninny. There.” Isabela tugged on his hair, turning his head, and he met Anders’ gaze straight on. Anders blushed and dropped his gaze, then immediately looked back up again, a look in his eyes that sent a shiver up Mal’s spine.

Oh, he thought. And then, after replaying several conversations in his head, and remembering Anders’ insistence on accompanying him into the Deep Roads. “Oh.”

“’Oh’ is right. Why waste your time mooning over someone who doesn’t appreciate your charms when you’ve got a gorgeous hunk of mage flesh right over there?” Isabela asked. “He’s got this thing he does with electricity that you won’t believe.”

“Isabela!”

Two days later he kissed Anders and it was good. Damned good. This was something real, someone he could have, who wanted him back. He’d spent all these years pining for Sebastian, not noticing Anders, who’d been right here next to him all along.

And a few weeks later he discovered Isabela was right, damn her. That thing with the electricity….

Afterwards, when Anders drifted off to sleep, Mal let his eyes wander. Anders’ feathered coat had hidden how thin he was. The sheet didn’t hide any of his sharp angles. There wasn’t a spare ounce of flesh to be found on him. He’d change that, Mal vowed.

Before Anders woke the next morning, Mal slipped out of bed. He surprised his cook when he entered the kitchen, but the cross expression melted from her face when he told her what he wanted.

When he set the tray down on the bed, he could see Anders’ nostrils widen as the scents wafted toward him. Fresh pastries and sliced fruit overflowed from the plates, and tendrils of steam floated from the spout of the pot of fragrant tea. He set the tray down on the mattress in front of Anders and lifted the lid of the pot, waving the steam in Anders’ direction.

One eyelid cracked open and Mal smiled. “Morning, lover.” He poured a cup, adding a generous dollop of cream and several spoonfuls of sugar before offering it to Anders. “Here. Who needs necromancy when there is Antivan tea?”

Watching Anders devour the food, Mal vowed he’d see fill out every one of the hollows between Anders’ ribs.

**_9:34 Hawke Estate_ **

“Just because this bed is big enough for three doesn’t mean you have an open invitation,” Anders told Woof one morning. The mabari had managed to inch his way in between the two of them while they slept, and Mal had woken up with his arm around his dog instead of his lover.

“And here I was thinking you were overdue for a shave. And out of tooth powder,” Mal teased.

“Ha. Very funny. This is me laughing.” Anders tried for a stern look but the twinkle in his eyes gave him away.

“I like it when you laugh,” Mal said. It was true. There wasn’t enough laughter for Anders. Only fighting the templars and for mage rights, and there was Justice inside him, always a disapproving presence hovering like a storm cloud on the horizon. “What are the plans for the day?” Mal asked, although he already knew the answer.

“I’m going to work more on my manifesto,” Anders said.

“All right then. I’ll see you at dinner,” Mal said, only half joking. Whenever Anders worked on his manifesto he lost all track of time.

After breakfast Anders sat down at the desk he’d appropriated in the library. It had been newly restocked with ink and quills and parchment, and the waste basket beneath it had been emptied. Bodahn had standing orders to keep the tea and snacks coming throughout the day.

As the weeks had passed, Mal had seen his promise made true. Anders looked healthier, happier, than Mal ever remembered him. He could look even better if Mal could convince him to make the estate his home, but Anders wouldn’t give up his Darktown clinic. If he had, Mal supposed, Anders wouldn’t be the same man he’d fallen in love with.

Sometime midafternoon he snuck up on Anders, reading over his shoulder.

“You’ve misspelled ‘irreparable’,” he said and Anders jumped, nearly tipping over the inkwell.

“I have not,” Anders said. “And don’t do that!”

“You have, though. There’s only one ‘r’ in the second part.” Pointing at the word gave Mal an excuse to drape himself across Anders’ back and plant a kiss above his ear.

“Are you sure?” Anders asked.

“As sure as I love you.”

**_9:34, Hawke Estate_ **

“You distract him, mage.”

It always chilled Mal when Justice spoke through Anders. It was especially disconcerting when it occurred as they were lying in bed together. A peaceful morning of waking up next to his lover and snuggling had been Mal’s plan, but the blue light and static emanating from Anders’ body wasn’t conducive to such activities.

“He needs some distracting.” They’d had this conversation before. Justice did not approve of anything that took Anders away from the Cause. Mal did not approve of Justice’s obsession hyper-fixation and how it affected Anders. “Look, we need time to relax that spirits don’t. If we don’t get that, we can go mad, and then where would your grand cause be?”

Any further argument Justice might have made was belayed. As Anders woke, he receded.

“Were you saying something?” he murmured.

Mal kissed his forehead. “I was wondering what we should have for breakfast.”

**_9:34, Lowtown Foundry_ **

“Anders, can you …?” Mal trailed off, knowing what the answer would be before Anders spoke. Leandra weighed almost nothing. Had she ever felt like this, holding him in her arms? Like he would float away, never to return? As Quentin’s magic faded, he looked upon her, pouring all his love for her into his gaze. She was cold already, even before her spirit departed.

They wrapped her in the sheets from Quentin’s bed. For an apostate, he lived in surprising luxury. Mal cradled her in his arms as they made their way home.

Someone had sent for Aveline. She stood over him, shuffling her feet, as he sat on the edge of Leandra’s bed. He’d laid her out there until the undertaker arrived.

Gamlen’s words echoed in his ears. It was his fault. He hadn’t been fast enough. He should have noticed something was wrong sooner. If only…

“If I had found her sooner. If I had taken Emeric more seriously.”

“Don’t, Hawke. Don’t do that to yourself.” Aveline shifted from foot to foot, as uncomfortable as Mal had ever seen her. She still tried, though. She crossed the room and laid a hand on his shoulder, squeezing. “She wouldn’t have wanted that.”

He didn’t notice when she left. After Leandra’s body had been taken away, he wandered the halls aimlessly. His feet took him at last to his room and he collapsed on the bed.

He didn’t look up at the sound of footsteps.

“I know nothing I say can make it better. I’m just … I’m sorry.” Anders sat next to him and Mal sagged into his embrace.

“I didn’t try hard enough to save her,” Mal said, and Anders held him in his arms.

“She wouldn’t want you to blame yourself.”

He would, though. He always would.

**_9:34, The Qunari Invasion_ **

The next time he saw Carver, the city burned around them. They were both of them splattered with Qunari blood and worse, but Carver still looked better than Mal ever remembered seeing him. There wasn’t time to think about this, though. Not now. They were leaving and he had no time to talk to Carver. There was so much he wanted to tell his brother, but how did you say things like _ I’m sorry I let Bethany down  _ or _ It’s my fault Mother is dead  _ or _ I shouldn’t have taken you to the Deep Roads _ when you’re standing in the middle of a burning city?

Before he could put words to any of his thoughts, Carver pulled him into a hug, surprising him. He pressed an amulet into Mal’s hand and then he was gone, following the same Warden who’d taken him from Mal in the Deep Roads, the man who said they had more important things to do than help save the city from the Qunari.

“Take care of yourself,” Mal murmured as Carver retreated with the rest of the Wardens. “We’re all that’s left now.”

**_9:35, The Hanged Man, after Chateau Haine_ **

They all traveled together on their way back to Kirkwall: mages, Wardens, and Mal’s merry band. Carver and Bethany stuck close to him, and they took turns telling tales to each other on the way, filling in some of the gaps of their years spent apart.

It took a bit of doing, but Mal managed to convince the Templars to let Bethany come with them all to the Hanged Man. He had to promise to escort her back, as if she couldn’t flatten any fool who tried to attack her between the tavern and the Gallows. Carver’s Warden companions were easier to convince. They already had some business in Kirkwall and would be staying several days.

Mal wasn’t much of a drinker, usually nursing one tankard for the evening, but that night everyone kept topping off his beer, and then Isabela bought a bottle of what the Hanged Man passed off as rum and before he knew it his head was spinning and he’d gotten deep into a conversation with Isabela about things that he would never have considered discussing in public if he was sober.

“But how do you know?” Isabela had asked. She’d somehow managed to end up in his lap, one arm around his shoulders. “I mean, have you ever tried sex with a woman?”

“Yeah. There was this one girl in Lothering. Had her heart set on dragging me to the Chantry and bringing Malcolm Hawke the Third into the world. Told me she’d be good enough for me, and spent every night for a week trying to prove it.”

“Really?” Isabela drawled. “And how exactly did she go about that?”

“She’d use her fingers and her mouth until I was ready about ready to come and then she’d try to mount me.” Mal heard a strangled cry from somewhere down the table, but couldn’t focus on who’d made it. 

“Did it work?” Isabela asked.

“Nope. Not once,” Mal said. “I like things in me, not me in things. Girl was good with her fingers, though.”

“I do not need to be hearing this,” Bethany said, at the same time that Carver asked, “Wait, was that Allison?”

“A gentleman doesn’t get fingered and tell,” Mal insisted, raising his tankard to his lips again. A flash of white shone in his peripheral vision, and he paused with the tankard halfway to his mouth, trying to focus on it. “I think I might have had too much to drink.”

“You think?” Varric asked, taking the tankard and unwrapping his fingers from around it.

The white blob looked a bit like Sebastian’s armor, but it couldn’t be. Sebastian had only come to the Hanged Man twice in all the years Mal had known him. He’d left them at the gates when they’d reached Kirkwall. He must be imagining things. It was a combination of too much to drink and wishful thinking. When Varric tried to take his tankard away, he let it go without protest.

“Let’s get you into a bed, Hawke,” Varric said. “C’mon, Carver. I’m not going to be able to manage this myself.”

“No, wait. I’ve got to get the Gallows back to Bethany!” Mal frowned, squinting down at Varric. “That didn’t sound right, did it?”

“We’ll take care of it,” Varric assured him. “You need to sleep this off.”

Between the two of them, Carver and Varric got him upright and headed in the general direction of the stairs. The stairs themselves were a challenge. They kept moving, getting taller and farther apart, then shrinking without warning. The three companions bounced off the walls more than once, but eventually made it up to Varric’s room. Varric poured him a glass of water and forced him to drink it while Carver stripped his boots off. After that, things became even more of a blur, fading eventually to black.

**9:35, Varric’s rooms, The Hanged Man**

When he woke the next day, his head pulsed as if the Ferelden army was marching through it, and it tasted like Woof had shat in his mouth. He groaned, rolling over and pulling a pillow over his head. That didn’t help in the slightest.

Bit by bit his surroundings intruded on his misery. The bed he was in wasn’t his own. The sheets were softer, and the light was wrong. Emerging from under the pillow, he squinted at his surroundings. It took a few minutes, but eventually he realized where he was. This was Varric’s room, and Varric’s bed. And was he …? Yes, he was stripped down to his smalls.

“Oh, no,” he moaned, diving back under the pillow.

“I was wondering if you were ever going to wake up. Here, Anders left this for you.” Varric sounded fresh as daisies. Mal hated him.

The mattress sank beside him. He didn’t move. Hands tugged at the pillow and he tightened his hold on it. “Come on, Hawke. You’ll feel better once you get this in you.”

“That’s what they all say,” he muttered. Might as well get it over with.

Varric  _ looked _ fresh as daisies too. Not a hair out of place, on his head or chest, and a grin split his face from ear to ear. He held out a vial, wiggling it in front of Mal’s face. Mal took it and downed it in one swallow, grimacing at the burn as it went down. It did what the label said, though. Within every passing minute he felt less and less like the walking undead.

“Better?” Varric asked.

“Maybe?” Mal replied.

“Maybe?” Varric echoed.

“Well, I kind of don’t remember anything past a certain point last night, and now here I am, mostly naked, in your bed. I don’t … I mean … did we …?” He trailed off, cheeks burning, as Varric laughed.

“Your virtue is safe, Hawke. You’re not my type, and even if you were, I would never take advantage of someone as drunk as you were. Plus, you’ve taken yourself off the market, and that’s not my style either.”

“Oh, thank the Maker,” Mal said. “Not that you aren’t …” Varric started to laugh again. “I’m just going to stop talking now. Well, after I ask where my clothes are?”

Laughing too hard to speak now, Varric pointed. Mal followed his finger and saw his clothes, neatly folded, sitting on a chair, his boots leaning up against the wall next to it.

“I am never drinking again,” Mal swore.

“I’ll drink to that,” Varric replied with a wink.

**_9:37, the Hawke Estate_ **

It was a stupid thing. They were just walking through Lowtown, making their way back to the Hawke estate. The events of the evening had them all distracted – the meeting with Sister Nightingale and her warning to the grand cleric had affected them all in various ways. Because of this, none of them were paying as much attention as they should.

The muggers came out of nowhere. They must be new to Kirkwall, because Mal’s reputation had made him one of the least tempting targets in the city. It was a simple matter to dispose of them, but it got messy. Simple things always seemed to get messy when they happened to Mal.

Mal had just finished off the man in front of him when he heard Sebastian grunt. He turned just in time to see Sebastian slip on a mess of blood and other things that didn’t warrant closer inspection. The thud as Sebastian’s head hit the stone pavement echoed off the walls around them.

Anders hadn’t come with them this time. Things had been a bit strained between them as of late, with Anders becoming more secretive, more paranoid. They’d had an argument a few days ago and Anders had left the estate. It had been three nights of sleeping alone by now.

Mal had thought it would be good to put some distance between them. A bit of time apart would ease things, he’d thought. That was working out so well, wasn’t it?

When he reached Sebastian, Mal was relieved to see him stirring, but when Sebastian tried to sit up all the color leached from his face and he began to retch.

“Shit. That’s not a good sign,” Varric said.

“We can’t treat him here. Varric, would you go find Anders and ask if he’d meet me at the estate?”

“I thought he was living with you?” Something must have shown in in Mal’s face because Varric shook his head. “Never mind. Fetch Blondie. I’m on it.” Shouldering Bianca, Varric strode off.

“Go after him,” Mal told Woof. It wouldn’t do for Varric to run into another group of bandits while he searched.

With Fenris’ help he got Sebastian upright and Mal slung Sebastian’s arm over his shoulders and put his own around Sebastian’s waist to steady him. He’d never been this close to Sebastian before and had to tamp down feelings he’d thought long buried. Fenris led the way, scanning the streets in the fashion they should have been doing before the attack.

When they walked in the door, Bodahn took one look at them and then started calling out orders. In no time they had Sebastian stripped of his armor and propped up in a bed in one of the guest rooms.

“Can you see to getting that cleaned?” Mal whispered to Bodahn. Sebastian had gotten sick again on the way.

“Of course, messere. And might I suggest a change of clothing for yourself too?” He hadn’t noticed that he’d been caught in the field of fire until now. New clothes would be good, but he was reluctant to leave Sebastian’s side.

“I’ll watch him,” Fenris assured Mal. Orana rushed in with bandages and a pitcher of water and a bucket, and, before leaving, Mal used a touch of magic to chill a damp cloth.

“Hold this to his head, will you?” he asked Orana before heading to his rooms.

If only he’d ever shown a smidgeon of talent for healing, he berated himself as he stripped off his soiled clothing.

Anders hadn’t arrived yet when he returned to Sebastian’s room. It felt like ages since Sebastian’s fall, but it had been only a few minutes. It would take time for Varric to make the trek to Darktown, and more time for them to return. It would be even more time if Anders wasn’t in his clinic and Varric had to track him down.

Ice for the swelling, he knew, and don’t let him fall asleep. He might not have a healing talent, but he’d learned enough about wound care over the years to know what to do until real help could arrive.

Sebastian’s eyes were unfocused and he seemed to be having difficulty tracking the movement of the people around him. Mal sat on the edge of the bed, taking the cloth from Orana and chilling it again with a flick of his finger.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, and a little whimper escaped Sebastian. Mal’s hand tightened on the cloth, imagining it was the necks of their attackers.

“Your house isn’t really spinning, is it?” Sebastian asked, voice weak and tone plaintive.

“New feature! How do you like it?” Mal joked and got a weak grin in response. “Hey, because you’re supposed to ask in situations like this, how many fingers am I holding up?”

Squinting at Mal’s upraised hand, Sebastian said, “I can’t tell, but I’d assume from past experience that you are making a rude gesture.”

Fenris laughed. Mal had, in fact, extended his middle finger. “Would I flip off a prince?” he asked, feigning innocence and drawing forth another chuckle from Fenris.

“I know for a fact you would,” Sebastian said. The attempts at banter despite his obvious pain tugged at those buried feelings again, and the column of Sebastian’s neck and a glimpse of his collarbones — milky pale, peeking through the neck of his shirt — tugged at other things.

Forcing his eyes up, they insisted on settling on Sebastian’s lips, which was even worse.  _ Stop it, _ he scolded himself _. You’re over him. You’ve been over him for years. You love Anders. _

And he did. He loved Anders with a desperate passion that scared him sometimes. But some traitorous part of him had held on to this yearning, and despite everything he’d done, it still remained, hidden in the deepest corner of his heart. All it had taken to bring it out again was that briefest of moments when he’d thought Sebastian had died.

He’d refreshed his spell on the cloth twice more before he heard Bodahn answer the door. Anders had come in through the front instead of using the cellar entrance. He must not have been in his clinic, then. When he entered, Fenris excused himself. Mal nodded a distracted farewell, focusing on Anders and trying to ignore those other feelings.

“How is he?” Anders asked without preamble, crossing the room to the bed.

“I can talk, you know,” Sebastian said. “Hawke has been seeing to my care.”

“Hawke has been getting your head cracked,” Mal said to break the awkward silence that followed. “Swelling’s not bad. I’ve been checking every few minutes. He’s having vision troubles still, but hasn’t had to use the bucket since we got back.”

Sebastian grimaced, then winced, and Mal mentally kicked himself for the crassness of his phrasing.

“All right, let’s see how bad it is.” As Anders leaned in, Mal caught a whiff of sour sweat and the pervasive smell of sulfur that permeated Darktown.  _ He hasn’t been taking care of himself,  _ Mal thought.  _ Always takes care of everyone else. _ Another wave of guilt washed through him, and he vowed that he’d heal the rift between them. That, at least, was within his abilities.

The next evening, Anders came back to check on Sebastian, and instead found a litter of kittens in a basket at the base of the guestroom bed, ensconced between Woof’s giant paws. The mabari allowed Anders to examine each kitten, one by one, and gave every kitten a lick on the head when Anders returned it to the basket.

Pointing to a grey tabby, Mal said, “I’ve already decided this one is King Catenhad, but I left the rest for you to name.”

**_9:37, The Chantry_ **

“Hawke. It’s good to see you!”

Mal jumped at the sound of Sebastian’s voice, flushing in guilt and something else — something he wouldn’t let himself think about. He’d been avoiding Sebastian ever since that evening, trying to distance himself, to regain that sense of closure he thought he’d found so many years ago. It hadn’t worked, he realized, when he met Sebastian’s eyes.

“There you are. I’m glad I found you.” Anders appeared at Mal’s elbow and the guilt intensified. He didn’t know why Anders had needed him to distract the grand cleric, but he was sure it was for something of which Sebastian would not approve. But Anders had asked and Mal couldn’t deny him.

“Ready to head out?” Mal took Anders’ hand, lacing their fingers together. Sebastian’s eyebrows shot up at the display, but he made no comment. “Sorry to rush off, but we’ve got places to be. Good to see you too, Sebastian!”

“Anything I can help with?” Sebastian asked.

“Not this time, thanks.” His smile felt strained, and he could feel Anders’ stare. “But I’m sure something will come up soon. Something always comes up, doesn’t it?”

**9:37, The Chantry Courtyard**

Of course something came up, because that’s how his life had gone since that day they’d fled from Lothering with a horde of darkspawn on their tail. The Chantry went up in a blaze that etched itself into his eyeballs and left him reeling, and not only from the shockwave.

“Elthina, no! Maker, no!” Sebastian fell to his knees, grief tearing the cry out of him.

Mal wheeled on Anders, betrayal settling heavy in his heart. “Was that why you needed me to distract the Grand Cleric?”

It was as if someone else’s hand held the dagger. It was quick. He owed Anders that. It felt like the knife pierced his own heart too. He held Anders until the light left his eyes, then lowered him to the ground. Closing his eyes, he kissed him on the forehead. Anders’ last words repeated themselves in his head, over and over:  _ It was nice to be happy for a while. _

“I’m sorry, love,” he murmured. Before he stood, he took the chain from around Anders’ neck. He didn’t look at the amulet or key as he shoved them into a pouch. He didn’t need to. He knew them both too well. On a whim, he also took the golden earring from Anders’ ear. It shone in the light that still blazed from the Chantry ruins until he closed his fist over it.

That was all the time he had to give to grief. Meredith had truly gone mad, declaring the Rite of Annulment when the destruction was caused by a single apostate. When he announced that they needed to save as many mages as they could, he thought Fenris and Sebastian would balk, but both rallied behind him. He wasn’t worthy of their friendship, but there was no time to think on that either.

When it was over, after Meredith’s madness truly manifested, after she’d become an idol of herself in the Gallows courtyard, he thought it would be over for him as well. He was about to throw himself on Cullen’s mercy, beg for the safe passage of his friends, when to his astonishment, Cullen went to one knee in front of him. One by one, the other templars followed suit, as did Aveline’s guardsmen and the few townsfolk who’d rallied to help them defeat Meredith and her summonings. Bethany led the remaining mages from the Gallows. They emerged tentatively at first, then in a rush. To Mal’s amazement, they, too, knelt before him.

“I didn’t ask for this,” he murmured as Cullen escorted him to the Viscount’s Keep.

Bran appeared at his elbow. “Nobody ever does,” the seneschal said as he bowed, not quick enough to hide the disdain in his eyes.


	2. Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What happens to Hawke after he leaves Kirkwall.

**_9:37, Viscount’s Keep_ **

It had been four weeks since they’d made him Viscount. Those four weeks felt longer than the seven years he’d spent in Kirkwall before he’d fallen into the title.

Being Viscount was a headache. Maybe that was why Meredith had held onto the reins for so long. Despite the nobles’ protests, none of them had wanted this. Who in their right mind would, Mal thought, as Bran read off the list of his prospective meetings? _Sebastian did_ , whispered the voice in the back of his head. How many Viscounts had told themselves to shut up?

At least this time the damage wasn’t as extensive as it had been after the Qunari. He’d seen the ledgers and compared them to Bran’s estimates for this round of repairs to their beleaguered city.

Every morning he crossed the square and climbed the steps to the Keep. Every morning each step seemed heavier and the stairs higher.

Bran met him at the door each morning. He must have scouts set up, to let him know when Mal left his estate. Or, being Bran, he might just come and stand by the door, ledger in hand, scowl on his face, waiting for Hawke to deign to enter the building.

It was probably the latter.

That day, as Bran droned on about what needed to be accomplished, Mal listened with half an ear. Bran’s daily lists usually contained what Mal would consider at least a week’s worth of tasks. Somehow by the end of each day they always found themselves crossing off the last item. That end of day might be the wee hours of the morning, but Carver had always sworn it wasn’t the next day until after you’d gone to bed and woken up again.

Today, one item on Bran’s list caught Mal’s attention.

“Our new Grand Enchanter is asking for an audience.”

“Really, Bran? Can’t you just say ‘your sister wants to talk to you’?” Mal asked.

“No. I couldn’t,” Bran replied, words as flat as his expression. The next item Bran read off also made him pay heed. “Sebastian Vael is also asking for an audience.”

The last person he wanted to see at the moment was Sebastian Vael. Not when he was still so raw from guilt and loss and betrayal, and Sebastian still burned with righteous anger.

“I assume he is still asking for assistance in retaking Starkhaven?” Mal asked, hoping the answer would be yes.

“A reason was not given when he requested the audience,” Bran said.

When reviewing Dumar’s journal, which he’d found tucked away in the back of one of the drawers in his desk, he’d found the former Viscount’s notes on Sebastian, including the amount he’d asked for in aid.

“I can’t see him right now. You can respond for me.” Taking a piece of parchment, Mal wrote out a number. “Tell him this is all that can be spared. Take it from my personal account.” It was a hefty sum but it wouldn’t bankrupt him – not completely, at least.

Last year he’d sold the Bone Pit to a group of dragon cultists. It had dragged on for several months. Every week, after he’d turned them down the previous one, they’d returned with a higher offer. The sum they’d finally agreed on had, it seemed, been princely indeed. Hubert would have fainted in shock if he’d still been around to find out how much they’d paid. He’d have even a few silvers left afterwards.

“Write it up as a no-interest loan,” said Mal. “When repaid, put it in the city’s coffers.”

Bran’s eyebrows looked to fly off his face but he took the parchment and slid it into his folder. “Very well, messere. It shall be done. If you will make your way to your office now, I will show in the first of the day’s appointments. With your permission?”

With or without his permission, Bran would still show them in. With a wave of his hand, Mal entered the room and sank into the chair behind Dumar’s desk. It would be some time before he might come to consider it his. With every day that passed he felt more and more like an imposter. Any second now, someone would come and drag him out of the Keep and throw him back into Gamlen’s hovel.

The only way to deal with it was to bluster his way through. He squared his shoulders and gave the seneschal his best grin.

“Bring it on, Bran. Oh, and schedule Bethany over lunch, would you? See if the kitchens can wrangle up those little sandwiches she likes.” It was a small indulgence, but he could allow himself that.

His first appointment was the leader of the crew that was clearing the Chantry site.

**9:37, Viscount’s Office**

“And we’re still picking bits of Orsino out of the courtyard,” Bethany said. Mal paused, his sandwich partway to his mouth.

“Can we please not talk about that over lunch?” Orsino’s betrayal didn’t gnaw at him as Anders’ did, but the discovery that the former First Enchanter had known of Quentin’s activities and hadn’t taken steps to stop him still infuriated him.

Before they could find another topic, voices from outside his door intruded.

“His Excellency is in the middle of an appointment,” he heard Bran say before his door burst open.

“Hawke, what is the meaning of this?” Sebastian brandished a parchment in his hand. “I don’t understand why you would refuse to see me, but then this….” Pausing mid-sentence, he shook his head, then made a half bow in Bethany’s direction. “My pardon for the intrusion, but ….” He trailed off again.

Bethany smiled at Sebastian as she rose. “I’ll leave the two of you, then, shall I?” Mal tried to protest, but she shook her head. “We’ll talk another time, brother.” She managed to snag the plate with the remaining sandwiches as she left. Mal caught a glimpse of Bran, looking even more exasperated than usual, as the doors closed.

Now that his initial outburst had subsided, Sebastian seemed at a loss for words. In a fit of pique, Mal remained silent, waiting him out. Sebastian had interrupted his lunch, after all.

It seemed like Sebastian, too, was waiting for him to speak. Mal leaned back in his chair, taking a bite from the sandwich he’d forgotten he held in his hand. If he didn’t eat now, he wouldn’t get another chance until this evening.

Finally, Sebastian broke the silence. “I came to ask what the meaning of this is.” He held out the parchment Mal had signed earlier that morning.

“I’d think it was self-explanatory.” Bran had procured a new official seal, engraved with the Hawke family crest, within hours of his being shanghaied into this role. The gold flecks in the deep red wax echoed the color of Sebastian’s hair in the sunlight. Sebastian’s next words put a stop to any more fanciful comparisons.

“Do you think to buy me off with this?”

Mal gaped at him in shock.

“Is this how you attempt to assuage your complicity in Elthina’s death? With coin to …?”

Dropping the sandwich, not caring where it fell, Mal stood, so suddenly that his chair fell over. The clatter interrupted Sebastian, which gave him pause for a moment. His face contorted with rage, he continued, venom dripping from his tongue. “What that monster did….”

With a gesture Mal’s desk flew across the floor, shattering as it hit the wall. Sebastian staggered backwards, an arm thrown up to protect his eyes from debris. His armor caught most of it but one splinter embedded itself in his cheek.

“That ‘monster’, as you call him, was my lover,” Mal hissed. “Anders had been abused by the system of which you are a part for years before we met. I may not agree with the actions he took, but he did not take them lightly. Do you know how you would react, what actions you would take, if you had been...?” No. He stopped. The things Anders had told him, whispered to him during long sleepless nights when the memories became too much, were for him and him alone.

Straightening, he smoothed his tunic down, tugging at the edges as he made himself stand tall. Sebastian stared at him, eyes wide. A single drop of blood welled up on his cheek where the splinter pierced his skin, and even now Mal felt the urge to wipe it away with a gentle caress of his thumb. He quashed that urge, burying it in the depths of his heart, and lashed out with words of his own.

“You’ve claimed since the day I met you that you would reclaim your family’s throne. In your hand is the means to do so. Was it all talk? Or will you break _this_ vow too?” He pulled the scorn and anger that Sebastian had thrown at him into his words and in the silence that followed, he took spiteful pleasure in the flush that washed over Sebastian’s face.

That pleasure didn’t last. It trickled out of him, leaving him feeling grey and empty as Sebastian plucked the splinter from his cheek.

“You are right, Hawke. I have a duty to my people. Thank you for your generosity. I shall see you repaid in full.”

“If that is all, Your Highness?” Mal used the title instead of Sebastian’s name deliberately.

“I suppose so. Your Excellency.” Sebastian graced him with a nod of his head before leaving. He hesitated at the door, half turning, as if he might say something else, but then pushed through, back straight and head high.

The utterance of his new title from Sebastian’s lips brought to mind the thought he’d had, all those years ago. He’d sworn that someday he’d be the prince’s equal.

“Be careful what you wish for,” he muttered to himself.

**_9:37, Hightown Square_ **

“Die, mage!”

That was all the warning Mal had before the attack, but it was enough. With a sweep of his hand a wall of ice shot out, encasing the man who ran at him and freezing him in place. There was an ugly green sheen on the edges of the dagger he held above his head.

Shaking his head, Mal stepped back as the guard surged forward. He’d thought at first that Bran was being overcautious, insisting he have an escort for the minimal distance from the Viscount’s Keep across the courtyard to his estate, but this was the twelfth assassination attempt in six months, and the fourth in three weeks.

Tuning out the frenzied screams the man threw at him once he started to thaw, Mal closed the door and leaned back against it.

“Another one, messere?” Bodhan asked, worry creasing his forehead.

“Well, if at first you don’t succeed. Isn’t that how the saying goes? This one wasn’t very smart, though. Screaming ‘Die mage!’ at your target before you attack does tend to give away one’s intentions.” He tried to play it off, but it didn’t work. If anything, Bodhan looked more worried.

“Maybe you should take up rooms in the Keep, messere.”

“I will not be chased out of my own home,” Mal said. Not after all he’d gone through to get it.

“Very well, sir. Will you be needing dinner?” Bodhan asked.

“Wine for now. Maybe some food later.”

Food appeared with the wine, despite what he’d said. It was simple fare that would go down easily. His stomach had wound itself into tighter and tighter knots as the weeks had passed, and there were days where he couldn’t stand even the sight of food. Bodhan and his cook conspired constantly to find things that would tempt him. Sometimes they succeeded.

“Oh, by the way,” Bodhan said as he put the tray on Mal’s desk. “Your friends stopped by – Serah Isabela and Serah Fenris. They’re in port for the next few days.”

A real smile broke over Mal’s face, the first in what felt like years. “I’ll have Bran leave me some time in my schedule tomorrow. Are they staying at the Hanged Man again?”

“Of course they are, although I don’t know why.”

“Sentiment, Bodhan. We all have a soft spot for that place,” Mal said.

“Probably from rot,” Mal heard Bodhan mutter under his breath.

He jotted out a quick note to Bran, to set aside time for his friends over lunch, and handed it off to Bodhan. That way he’d be spared the seneschal’s usual sigh and eyeroll. With that out of the way, he forced himself to eat some of the bread and cheese Bodhan had brought before pouring the wine. The roiling in his gut made food a chore most days. The fit of his clothes told him he’d been losing weight because of it. Wine didn’t help settle his stomach, but without it he wouldn’t be able to sleep.

He managed to eat enough to avoid a disappointed look and limited himself to one glass. By the time he finished, his eyes were sagging. Kicking his boots off, he left them under the desk, and shed his clothing piece by piece as he made his way to his bed. Blowing out the lamp, he slid under the covers, pulling them over his head, and waited for sleep to claim him. Hopefully tonight he wouldn’t dream.

**9:37, Viscount’s Office**

“Quick, Hawke! You distract that seneschal fellow and I’ll have the lock on that chest picked in a jiffy,” Isabela said by way of greeting the next day. Bran gave a long-suffering sigh as he closed the door behind them.

The ocean sun had darkened Fenris’ skin, and his lyrium markings were even more brilliant with the contrast. Life at sea seemed to agree with him. Isabela looked the same as always. 

“How goes the slaver hunt?” Mal asked, and Fenris’ eyes lit up.

“There are fewer in the world with every passing week.” Fenris sounded the happiest Mal had ever heard him.

“We’ll scour them from the Waking Sea, mark my words,” Isabela added.

They shared a knowing look as Mal picked at his food, but neither of them said anything. They made up for his meager appetite, clearing the platter of almost everything. Choice tidbits appeared on his plate seemingly by magic, and he fixed Isabela with a glare. She gave him her best attempt at an innocent look and he dissolved into laughter, exhaustion finally catching up with him and making him giddy.

By the time the meal ended he found the shared platter empty, and a surprising amount had passed between his lips. They talked throughout the meal, and the that had idea started to form in Mal’s crystalized as they finished.

“How long are you planning on staying?” he asked, managing to make it sound like casual curiosity.

“No more than a week. Can’t let them get too complacent out there.” Isabela winked at him, and Fenris sat back with a satisfied smirk on his face.

“Good. Then we can catch up again before you leave.”

**9:37, The Docks**

Eight nights later, under cover of darkness, Mal slipped out of the cellar in his estate, through the secret entrance and into Darktown. Shrouded in a plain grey cloak, he made his way to the surface by instinct, still familiar with the undercity after all these years. He emerged into Lowtown as the first hint of dawn tinted the sky.

Sent on ahead so as not to arouse suspicion, Woof materialized out of the gloom and fell in beside him as they neared the docks. Isabela’s ship rocked at the pier. Her crew was lading some last bits of cargo on board and she stood on the pier, supervising. She didn’t seem surprised when Mal approached.

“Come for one last goodbye drink?” she asked with a wink.

“Not if it came from the Hanged Man,” Mal shot back. “My head still aches every time I think about their rum.” That got a laugh. “So, are you ready to sail, Captain?”

“That I am, Hawke.”

“Is that offer to sail with you still open?” Mal asked. For once, he’d managed to strike Isabela speechless. “I’ve left a notice that I’ve abdicated my position. Bran will find it in an hour or so. He’ll hate me even more now.”

“He hates everyone.” Isabela stared at him for a moment, then grinned, gesturing towards the gangplank. “Well, get on with you, then. We’ll be setting sail as soon as that last crate is on board.”

Woof barked in excitement as he ran up the wooden plank, waiting on the deck for Mal with his stumpy tail vibrating.

“You’re cleaning up after your dog, though,” Isabela warned him.

“Wouldn’t have expected otherwise,” Mal replied.

As the ship rounded the tip of the Gallows, Mal stood at the bow, eyes fixed on the horizon. He didn’t look back at Kirkwall once.

**_9:38, The Waking Sea_ **

Mal had expected the roll of the ship to exacerbate his sensitive stomach, but by the end of the first week he felt like a new man. He took to life at sea like one born to it, or so Isabela claimed. She might have been humoring him, but he didn’t care.

Isabela’s crew was a motley bunch. There was the usual mixture of humans and elves, with several young dwarves and, to his surprise, three Qunari. He marked one of them as a mage the first time he saw her. Like calls to like. The puckered scars around her lips also gave her away, as did her horns, which had been shorn and capped.

“This is Fly,” Isabela told him as they made the rounds of introductions.

“As in ‘wouldn’t hurt one?’” Mal asked.

“As in ‘I am no longer in a cage.’” Fly didn’t look at Hawke as she spoke the words. Instead, she stared up at the seagulls that circled their vessel.

Isabela met his eyes and he could tell that she, too, was remembering another _saarebas_ that had not wanted to be free.

For most of that first week he tried to stay out of everyone’s way. There was a rhythm to Isabela’s crew that he couldn’t catch at first, and there were more people on board than it seemed necessary for a ship of her size.

Bit by bit, he eased his way in. There were some mutters behind his back at first. Nothing malicious, but he caught the glances some of the crew threw his way. He started helping with some of the more odious tasks. Didn’t want anyone thinking he had any airs to put on.

Gutting fish was a nasty job, but he’d done enough of it as a child and it wasn’t a skill you forgot. As he sat with the others that had drawn for this duty, he found himself gradually included in their banter, and the mutterings and the glances grew fewer and fewer, until at last he became merely one of the crew.

Life aboard Isabela’s ship wasn’t all work. There were plenty of idle times. Mal spent his downtime at the prow, leaning into the spray as the ship surged forward. He let himself mourn at last, and the salt water hid his tears.

Sometimes Fly joined him. She never said much. He could tell she was curious about him, about his magic. He drew her out, bit by bit.

Fly tended towards fire magics. This made the crew tread warily around her. Fire and boats didn’t mix. Well, fire and your own boat didn’t. Slavers were another matter.

Fly took slavery personally, maybe even more so than Fenris did. Mal discovered just how personally the first time they intercepted some slavers.

Over the last year Isabela had developed a network that fed her rumors of slaver traffic. Whenever she was in port, someone would sidle up to her and whisper in her ear, or press a scrap of parchment in her hand.

“Friends of Red Jenny,” she said when Mal asked, but didn’t explain who Red Jenny was or who her friends were. When Mal pressed, she winked. “A girl’s gotta have some secrets, Hawke.”

This time, those rumors had led her to this: two armed ships escorting a cumbersome barge.

“It’d be nice to take those escort ships whole, but we can pick loot out of the water easy enough if that doesn’t happen. The most important thing is that we take the barge intact, and with as little damage as possible,” Isabela told Mal as they came within firing range.

With Fly’s fire and Mal’s ice, the battle was over almost before it had begun. One ship lay scattered across the sea in front of them. The other listed sideways, masts a charred forest and a giant hole in one side, with spears of ice still sticking out of her hull. It was then that Mal discovered why there were so many crewfolk on Isabela’s ship. She split half of them between the barge and the remaining ship.

“We’ll take this lot over to Wycome,” Isabela said. “With the sale of the one ship and whatever we salvage from the other, these people should be able to get a new start.”

Some of the crew stayed when they arrived at Wycome. Some of the freed slaves took their places. Isabela dragged them to a pub close to the docks. “Come on! Time to celebrate!”

That night, in between mugs of grog, Mal asked Isabela to do something for him. It might have been the drink, or the flickering of the torches, but her eyes seemed a bit brighter than usual as she helped him pierce his ear and put the gold ring in place.

“There. Now you’re a proper pirate!” she told him. Dabbing at the corners of her eyes, she swore. “Too smoky in here.”

He could live like this forever, he thought, as he helped the crew load supplies on board the next morning.

Isabela knew before he said anything.

“You’re going to watch out for him, right?” she asked Woof. “Because we all know he’s shite at doing it for himself.” Woof barked in agreement, stumpy little tail wagging. “Who’s a good boy?”

No one paid him any heed as he headed away from the docks and into the city. The ground heaved strangely under his feet at first, but he got the hang of it again soon enough. Following the directions Isabela had given him, he made his way to the gates at the other end of town.

The road along the Minater River was wide and well-maintained. Shifting his pack until it settled more comfortably against his back, he looked down at Woof.

“Well, boy, let’s see what new trouble we can get into, shall we?”

**_9:38, On the Road to Starkhaven_ **

News always reached him. That was how he knew that Starkhaven would be celebrating the crowning of their new Prince. He told himself he wasn’t going, right up until the gates of the city loomed on the horizon, and then admitted to himself that he couldn’t have stayed away. Slipping into the city, an anonymous face in the crowds, he was taken aback at the glory of Sebastian’s pride and joy. His former comrade had every right to brag. Starkhaven truly was a jewel of a city; it put Kirkwall to shame. Or, at least, the parts he was seeing did. He’d look for the other areas, where the destitute and the criminal lived, but not today.

There was a speech scheduled for midday, and he found himself a place on the edges of the vast courtyard where it was to be given, settling in on stack of old crates with a pie he’d purchased from a street vendor. His perch gave him a clear view of the square, head and shoulders above the milling masses. From time to time someone came along and looked like they might try to oust him from his space. After a look at him in his battered leathers and wicked looking staff, or a growl from Woof, who lay at the base of the crates, they all passed him by, looking for an easier person to bully.

A fanfare sounded at last, and the crowd parted to let a procession through. It came from the palace down to the square, and Mal’s spot gave a prime view. His gaze narrowed down to the man at the head of the procession. Sebastian shone in the midday light, clad in rich velvets and silks, not the armor that Mal still pictured him in. Instead it was his horse that bore the colors Mal associated with him, blinding white of mane and outfitted in golden leather to match its coat.

A gold circlet sat on Sebastian’s brow, bringing out the reddish highlights in his hair. He mounted the wooden dais that had been raised in the center of the square to deafening cheers, and Mal found himself caught up with the crowd, adding his own voice to theirs.

As had happened so many times before, Mal had come to think he’d idealized Sebastian in his memories. Seeing him here, today, he realized yet again that this was not the case. If anything, he’d misremembered Sebastian’s beauty. A wave of dizziness passed through him and he realized he’d forgotten to breathe. He closed his eyes and inhaled, drawing a deep gasp of air into his lungs, and then another, and when he opened his eyes, he found Sebastian staring straight at him. It wasn’t his imagination. Even with the distance that separated him, he saw Sebastian’s eyes widen in recognition.

“Shit,” he muttered. “I shouldn’t have come.”

A woman, dressed as finely as the new prince, touched Sebastian’s elbow and drew his attention away, and when Sebastian turned to look at her Mal slid down from his perch and melted into the crowd.

It took him almost no time to make his way back to the gates, with as empty as the streets were. The guards eyed him as he passed by, but made no move to speak with him. He had time. Sebastian might write him off as a case of mistaken identity. If he didn’t, he might not still look for Mal. If he did decide to find him, he wouldn’t be able to organize a search for him until after he finished his princely duties. By that time Mal would be long gone. He’d had years of practice in losing himself.

**_9:40, Hawke Estate_ **

The first time he’d returned to Kirkwall, Mal found the space where Anders’ clinic had once stood had been carved up into little cubbies. Squatters glared at him when he poked his head in. When he turned the key in the lock to the cellar entrance from Darktown, memories threatened to overwhelm him.

That first time, when he’d emerged from the cellars, Orana had shrieked and dropped the basket of laundry she’d been carrying. He had to coax her out from the wardrobe where she’d hidden herself, and had nearly talked himself hoarse doing so. She’d been convinced he was a ghost returned to haunt them. Even Woof’s presence didn’t convince her at first. When at last she cracked the door, the mabari whined with happiness, stretching his paws out and wagging his rear in happiness.

Bodhan had let out something resembling a shriek as well when he saw Mal, and had forgotten himself long enough to nearly crack Mal’s ribs while Sandal danced around them both, alternating between cries of “Enchantment!” and “Doggie!” It took almost as much convincing to keep Bodhan from announcing his return to the entire city as it had to convince Orana he wasn’t a lost spirit. Once he regained his composure, Mal found himself ensconced in a warm bath with a hot meal and a cold bottle at hand.

The cats all seemed to remember him. They swarmed the bathroom, some trying to swipe bits from his meal while others distracted him with their antics. The misnamed ‘King’ Catenhad had had several litters while he was away, Bodhan had told him, and looked to be on her way to another one. She pulled down one of the towels and kneaded it into a ball to her liking, then sat with her paws tucked under herself, staring at him and purring while he bathed.

Once he’d dried, Mal took stock of himself. He hadn’t looked in a mirror in months. With so much time on the road, his freckles had doubled in number, scattered like constellations over his cheekbones. There were fine lines at the corners of his eyes that hadn’t been there the last time he looked, and a few strands of white at his temples.

“I’m too young for this,” he told his reflection. Vanity prompted him to pluck them. He ignored the impulse. 

Somehow Varric found out he was there. Bodhan assured him that Varric merely stopped by the estate from time to time, and that might be true, but Mal was sure that Varric didn’t show up with a bottle tucked under one arm for every visit.

“Hawke,” he said.

“Varric.”

“You look like shit,” the dwarf said by way of greeting.

“Good to see you, too,” Mal replied, and Varric grinned, waggling the bottle at him.

The city was doing well without him, even though they hadn’t replaced him. According to Varric, they still considered him Viscount.

“Didn’t they get my resignation?” Mal asked, and Varric laughed, the rich rolling tones bringing back memories of happier times.

“I’m sure Bran burned it, while cursing your name.” Varric raised his goblet, and Mal followed suit. “Staying long?”

“No. If I do they’ll probably drag me back there.” Gesturing vaguely in the direction of the Keep with his goblet, Mal grimaced. “No, I’m just going to dip into the coffers for a bit of traveling money.”

“Sleep in your own bed for at least a night, Hawke. And shave. You’re starting to look like a dwarf.”

“Well, someone in this room has to.”

“Oh, by the way, Gamlen left the city, did you know?” Varric asked. Mal did not. “He and Charade are up in Val Chevin now.”

“Causing who knows what mischief, I’m sure,” Mal quipped.

“Actually, it seems that having a daughter’s been good for him. My contacts say he hasn’t visited the Blooming Rose in months and he didn’t leave any debts behind.” 

There had never been any love lost between Mal and his uncle, but Mal could be happy for him. At least there was one Amell who wasn’t making a mess of their life anymore.

A basket filled to overflowing with letters sat on his desk. He tossed all of them into the fire before he left, then fished out the one with the Starkhaven seal before it caught. That one he shoved in a desk drawer. He’d read that one. Someday.

**_9:41, Skyhold_ **

Varric left him letters at the estate from then on out, and those were among the few things he never burned. Varric’s letters were full of the dwarf’s legendary exaggeration and bravado, and they always made Mal laugh. Up until the last one he received, the one that he crumped in his fist. Corypheus. He started the trek to Skyhold the next morning.

There was a steady stream of people heading to the Inquisition’s new stronghold. Attaching himself to a group of mages he met on the road, he made up a name and built up a story over the days that passed. Arrik from Wycome had left the Circle there and had been traveling alone ever since. Woof played along, answering to Barkspawn with a glint of humor in his eye. Once they reached the keep, he charmed one of the guards, a young man with a Free Marches accent, into passing along a letter to Varric. He didn’t have to wait long.

“Andraste’s flaming tits! I can’t believe you’re here, Hawke,” Varric said, pulling him into a hug that made his ribs creak.

“You look good, Varric,” Mal gasped out after Varric let go.

“And you still look like shit,” Varric said, eyeing him up and down. “When was the last time you had a bath?”

“Yeah, about that. Could I borrow your razor?”

The beard had served him well on the road, but if he was going to meet people as himself it needed to go. He didn’t want to give up such an easy disguise when it became time to disappear again.

He had personal experience with how heroes grew along with their legends, but Evelyn Trevelyan still came as a surprise. She’d tuck in under his armpit without having to duck if he dared to try it, he thought, when Varric led her up to the battlements. He would never dare, though. What she lacked in height, she made up for in moxie and stubbornness. He liked her at once.

Cullen liked her too, and rather more than liked, it seemed. He knew that the moment he saw the two of them together. And lucky Cullen, she seemed to more-than-like him back. They both stared at each other when they thought the other one wasn’t looking. Everyone around them noticed, and he found himself roped into the conspiracy to put them in each other’s way as often as possible. He was a willing accomplice. It reminded him of a time when a certain captain of the guard was trying to go a-courting.

Whenever Evelyn’s and Cullen’s starry eyes and ‘accidental’ touches brought up memories, he shoved them back down into the corner from where they’d arisen.

“I hear you have a contact in the Wardens?” Evelyn asked him.

“Something like that, yes.”

**9:41, On the Road to Crestwood**

Seeing Cullen again reminded him of Kirkwall. Or rather, it reminded him of things he’d been trying not to remember about Kirkwall.

Mal still wore the gold earring. It had become a part of him, and sometimes he forgot about it. At other times, he couldn’t stop thinking about it, and the memories it carried with it.

There were the memories of the flash of gold in Anders’ ear, in the soft light of the embers of the fire in his quarters as he and Anders had lain in bed together, sometimes talking, sometimes not. He’d brush Anders’ hair back, away from his face while he was writing his manifesto, too caught up in his thoughts to notice it had come loose from its tie. Sometimes he’d trace the shell of Anders’ ear and give the ring a playful tug. _You need a break,_ he’d say when Anders squawked in protest. Sometimes Anders would listen to him. 

There was the memory of the dagger in his hand, and the fall of his lover’s body to the cold, hard stone.

Sometimes wine helped. Most of the time it didn’t.

**9:41, Crestwood**

Besides the sealed parchments from Starkhaven, the other letters he never burned were those rare missives from Bethany and Carver. It was thanks to Carver’s letters that he’d known of the Wardens’ troubles, and it was how he knew where to meet them: Carver and his commander.

Crestwood had its share of troubles, but the Inquisitor took them in stride. Mal could see why people followed her. He didn’t go with them to drain the lake and close the rift there, but he heard stories about it afterwards, and his respect for her grew.

His feelings were more complicated where Warden Stroud was concerned. He’d met Stroud twice, the first time in the Deep Roads after their ill-fated expedition. He’d hated the man at first. Hated him because he’d almost not taken Carver, and then hated him because he had. The second time had been during the Qunari invasion, when he’d refused to stay and help. Warden business was more important, he’d said. Hawke had hated him a bit for that, too.

But Carver liked and, yes, respected this man, and Stroud returned that respect, so Mal put on a friendly face for his brother’s sake. And as they traveled together, Mal’s initial dislike faded and he found himself coming to respect the Warden as well. Stroud was a good man to have at your side, and definitely a good man to have at your back. He integrated himself into their party, adapting to their fighting style with ease, and was unfazed by Mal’s use of magic. Wardens had always had mages in their ranks, Mal remembered.

Both Stroud and Carver downplayed the effect of Corypheus’ Calling, but Mal could see the strain in their faces, and heard them both cry out at night. He couldn’t do anything about that, he thought, but maybe, when they faced the rest of the Wardens and stopped them from their madness, they’d all be able to work together to find a solution.

**_9:41, in the Fade_ **

“Carver, no,” Mal said, voice breaking.

“Shut up and go, brother,” Carver said. “This is a Warden matter.” 

“Stuff the Wardens. I’m not leaving you here.”

“Mal, no. This is mine to do.” Carver stood tall and proud. He’d changed so much, grown into himself, comfortable in his skin now as he’d never been when they were young. “Go, Mal. Tell Bethany she’s still a brat.”

He felt the tears prick at his eyes as Carver drew him in for a hug, then pushed him away.

“Father would be proud of you,” Mal said before letting go. “I’m proud of you.”

They piled through the rift one by one. The Inquisitor insisted he go before her, preventing him from following through on his half-formed notion of charging back and joining Carver in one last fight. As they emerged into Adamant’s main courtyard, he strained to catch a glimpse of Carver. All he could see was the bulk of the Nightmare. As Evelyn raised her hand, the rift wavered, then closed with a crackle and a soundless burst of energy that staggered them all. It wasn’t that force that drove him to his knees, though.

“Mal!” Varric found jogged towards him, slowing as he saw the expression on Mal’s face. “Where’s Junior?”

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. Woof lay at his feet, whining, as Mal collapsed into Varric’s arms.

**_9:41, After Adamant_ **

The road to Weisshaupt was long and hard. They had an Inquisition escort to the border of Orlais, but they only went as far as that. They left the Wardens with supplies to supplement what they’d taken from Adamant, which made the journey less hard than it could have been, but those only got them so far.

Stroud led them, on Mal’s recommendation. He’d been the only one of the Wardens Carver had trusted. Mal hadn’t needed to come with them, but he did. He wanted time with these people, who had known his brother as Warden Carver and not Hawke’s brother. During their time together in Kirkwall, Carver had told him that he’d always felt like he was living in Mal’s shadow. As they’d traveled from Crestwood to the Western Approach, it had been like meeting his brother anew. Carver had finally found himself and earned respect on his own with the Wardens. If he could only have come into himself another way – one that hadn’t led to this.

That line of thought served no purpose, so whenever Mal found his brain turning in that direction, he found something else to focus on. It was easy enough to do. Many of the Wardens traveled in a daze, still coming to terms with how they’d been duped, and the things they’d done because of it. He wasn’t the only person mourning a departed one. Helping to distract them, draw them out of their misery, distracted him from his, and that was good.

Every evening, they gathered around fires and exchanged stories. He listened to them all and shared some of his own. By firelight he recorded these stories and sketched the Wardens who told them. He’d send the journal to Bethany eventually.

None of them had ever heard the story of Carver charging the ogre that threatened their mother so many years ago, on their flight from Lothering.

“Huh. That explains a lot,” one of the Wardens said. At Mal’s questioning look, he shrugged. “Always charged them head on. No matter how many times we yelled at him for it, he’d spot one and he’d be off, screaming at the top of his lungs. Scared the piss out of one of ‘em.”

“I’d have liked to see that,” Mal said. A sketch of an ogre standing in a puddle made its way onto one of his pages.

When at last they reached Weisshaupt, they were received by a group of grim old Wardens. Their welcome to Mal was courteous, but not warm. 

Their fortress reminded him in some ways of Skyhold. Not in looks, not one bit, but in the age, the weight of the building. He could feel history seeping out of the stone walls and clinging to him like the frost that accumulated on the grounds overnight.

Why he stayed, he couldn’t say. He had no intention of going through their Joining ritual. It wasn’t that the trip back daunted him – he’d traveled longer and harder roads since leaving Kirkwall. There was something, though, that called to him. He didn’t say that out loud, not after what the Wardens had gone through. The weight of Corypheus’ fake Calling pressed down on them all. It leant to the overall grimness of the place.

No one objected when he showed up in the mornings to train with them. There were things they knew and he didn’t, and vice versa. This was the first chance he’d ever had to openly use his magic and receive feedback and instruction from other mages. His father’s piecemeal training over the years proved to have few gaps, he was surprised to discover. The basic principles he’d learned as a child were the same taught to Circle mages. He’d learned to combine his skills in new ways, though, and some of those ways surprised the Warden mages. It was that, more than anything, that earned him his stay.

Weeks passed in the blink of an eye, and one night, when autumn was drawing to a close, Stroud sought him out.

“Mal,” he said by way of greeting, settling beside him on the bench in the dining hall.

“Stroud,” Mal replied, caught with his spoon halfway to his mouth.

Stroud dug into his own food without further word. The Wardens ate simply but well. They managed to scrape out some crops in the rocky fields around their fortress and supplemented it with wild herbs and game, which seemed to be plentiful in the area. Mal had seen the formidable storehouses located within the keep’s lower levels, including carcasses kept frozen by the permanent chill in rooms dug deep into the bedrock of the mountains. Those rooms were augmented by spellwork, to which he’d been happy to contribute. It was part of earning his keep, he’d figured.

They finished their meal in silence. Stroud managed to empty his bowl before Mal even though he’d started after. That legendary Warden appetite, he thought. Looking at Stroud’s strong hands where they rested on the table, he wondered, and not for the first time, if the other rumors about Wardens were true.

“Winter is fast approaching.” Stroud’s words cut into his thoughts and he glanced up to meet Stroud’s eyes. “You will need to leave in the next few days, before the snows begin in earnest, unless you want to be stuck here for the season.”

There had been a few flurries over the past week, tiny white granules that stung the skin but evaporated as soon as they hit the ground. Looking at Stroud, he thought that perhaps spending the winter here wouldn’t be so bad.

“Are you kicking me out?” he joked. He was rewarded with the hint of a smile beneath Stroud’s moustache. Stroud’s slow, sly humor had surprised him at first, coming from a man seemingly so dour, but he’d come to appreciate it on their journey.

“No,” Stroud said with a shake of his head. “Just advising you. You have made yourself useful and it has been noticed. There is an ulterior motive, of course. Some hope that you will yet decide to join us.”

“Not going to happen.” Not that Mal had any great plans for the rest of his life, but he wanted that life to be as long as possible and he knew the odds on the Joining ritual.

“I know that, but others still haven’t given up on you,” Stroud said.

“Sorry to disappoint them, but I’m a lost cause.”

“Only in this one way, my friend.”

“Is there a pool going?” Mal asked.

“As commander, I wouldn’t know. If I did, I might have to forbid it.” There it was again, that twitch at the corners of Stroud’s moustache as he spoke. Easy to miss if you didn’t know what to look for.

“So you can’t put a few gold down for me, then? A couple on either side?” Mal asked. “A friend of mine once told me to always hedge my bets.” Varric had never bet on only one outcome and he always seemed to come out ahead.

“Even if I could acknowledge the betting, no,” Stroud said. “Not considering what the other pool is.”

“Oh, and what’s that one?”

Stroud’s hand lay close to his on the table, close enough that it was easy for Stroud to reach out with one finger and trace the outline of Mal’s knuckles. “How long it will be before we become bedmates.”

“Oh.” Oh, indeed. He could feel his pulse quicken at Stroud’s touch, and a whole realm of new possibilities opened up before him. “Who’s got the bet in for tonight, then?”

**_9:41, Weisshaupt_ **

Sharing the Warden Commander’s quarters didn’t have many perks. The bed was slightly larger, and had a thicker quilt. To offset these small conveniences, there were three flights of stairs down to the common areas. It had a private bath chamber, though, so that balanced out the stairs, at least a bit. There was even a minimal supply of hot water in the bath, thanks to a runed tank that filled with rainwater or snowmelt, depending on the season.

There was nothing of Stroud to remind him of Anders, except for their few brief interactions in the Deep Roads and Kirkwall, and that was good. There was nothing in him that brought Sebastian to mind either, and that was better. Still, sharing a bed with someone else for the first time in years brought up memories he’d thought buried. Stroud didn’t ask, on those times when he woke to an empty bed and found Mal curled up in a chair by the window.

He wouldn’t call what they did lovemaking, but he couldn’t think of it as mere fucking, either. There was a definite affection between them, tempered by experience and the separation they both knew would come. The way Stroud whispered his name when they were joined didn’t bring any great flood of emotion. There was no heady rush in the aftermath, no overflowing of feeling. There was just comfort. They were two men with heavy souls, and sharing the distractions of the flesh relieved some of the burden.

It was also nice, to have another warm body next to yours under the covers during the bitter winter nights. Woof provided warmth, but not the comfort Mal felt from another human pressed up against him. Stroud’s breath smelled better too.

This was the first time Mal had traveled so far north. He vowed one morning, when he found the water in the wash basin frozen, that it would be the last. Once spring came, he’d shake the snow of this place from his boots and not look back.

His leaving was never spoken of between them, but it didn’t hover over them either. It was merely a fact. Come spring, Mal would shoulder his pack and head through the gates and make his way down the road and away from the fortress.

He didn’t notice it at first. The nights were still long and the days frigid. But one morning, when he woke, he heard the cries of birds as they flew overhead.

“They will begin building nests in the cliffs. Soon you won’t be able to think for the birdcalls, come dawn,” Stroud murmured sleepily into his neck.

“How much longer until the passes thaw then?” Mal asked.

“Three, maybe four weeks,” was Stroud’s response.

Their morning couplings were usually slow, lazy, as their bodies grew accustomed to wakefulness. That morning they shook the bed, their cries echoing through the chamber, a prelude to the cacophony of spring.

A month later, he said his farewells at the gate. The men and women he’d traveled with and trained with came to wish him well on his journey. Stroud saw him off with a simple clasp of hands. They’d said all that needed to be said the night before.

Mal did look back, before rounding the curve in the trail that would hide Weisshaupt from sight. There on the battlements a single figure still stood.

Another thing that had never been spoken between them was the likelihood they would never see each other again. Listening to the Wardens talk, he’d learned how long Stroud had been a Warden. He’d also learned what happened to old Wardens.

When he waved, Stroud returned the gesture.

“Goodbye, my friend,” he said, even though Stroud was too far away to hear.

**_9:43, Starkhaven_ **

Mal let his feet take them where they would. To his consternation, they insisted on taking him to the Free Marches. It had been five years since Sebastian had been crowned, and every year on the anniversary the city threw a festival in celebration. It wasn’t as grand as the coronation had been, but there was still a fair with vendors selling both savory delicacies and common foodstuffs, along with a multitude of fripperies and little commemorative souvenirs. Mal’s hands wandered to his belt pouch of their own accord and he found himself in possession of a tiny flag printed with an image of the Vael coat of arms.

This time he let Woof wander as he skulked at the edges of the crowd. It wasn’t as good a view as his perch from five years ago, but he could blend in, and his height still afforded him a view of the platform in the center of the square.

There was no chance Sebastian would be able to pick him out in the middle of this crowd, but in case the Maker still had it in for him, he’d allowed his beard to grow in again. It itched horribly, but between that and his now-long hair, his own mother would have had to take a second, and then possibly a third glance before she recognized him. It gave him a somewhat sinister air. Paired with his travel-worn leathers and scarred knuckles, the people around him gave him breathing room and then some.

Sebastian still looked like a shard of the Golden City had fallen through the Veil and landed in Thedas. The crown sat lightly on his brow, slightly askew. He laughed with the people that escorted him from the palace, moving with a regal assurance. The same woman walked at his side. Advisor or consort, Mal wondered, and then told himself he didn’t care either way.

Someone used magic to amplify Sebastian’s voice when he gave his speech. Every word rang clear throughout the square. His speech was simple, almost sermon-like in its quality. No one should be surprised by that. His face shone with fervor, the same look that Mal had seen when he sang the Chant all those years ago in Kirkwall.

This time Mal lingered afterwards. He explored the city and found it exceeded his expectations. It had its poor and needy, but they lived more comfortably than his family had when they’d first arrived in Kirkwall. At first glance the Alienage looked no different from some of the small villages he’d passed through on his travels, but faces were less gaunt and clothes less threadbare. Elven children ran and played in the streets, together with humans and dwarves, dodging in between the adults going about their business. Woof was delighted – he darted among them, stealing their ball and then bringing it back, grinning his toothy grin as they made much of him.

That evening he found a niche in an alley, wedged up against a chimney for the evening. He woke with a crick in his neck but between the heated brick and his blanket, he’d been warm the whole night. In the morning he splashed water on his face from a trough before purchasing meat rolls from a street vendor for himself and Woof for breakfast.

What was only going to be a day or two turned into two weeks. He went so far as to rent a room and dined in the inn’s common hall in the evenings. During the days, he explored the city. What he found there, what he saw and heard every day, impressed him more and more. There were resources for these people, food when it was scarce, medicine when it was needed, even if the common folk couldn’t afford it. Everyone he spoke to held Sebastian in reverence. Eyes gleamed and smiles creased faces when the people talked about their prince.

He circled the palace throughout his stay, coming close but not too close. He spent one afternoon following the wall that circled the grounds, eyeing each gate. Each time he almost went up and announced himself, asking for an audience. Each time he backed away, muttering to himself before moving on.

At last he gave up, shaking his own head at himself in disgust. “Coward,” he muttered. Without another backwards glance he gathered his few belongings from his room and left. When the road curved, he did not look back.

**_9:43, The Hawke Estate_ **

Although he’d vacated his position, he still found himself privy to some of the inner workings of Kirkwall. Whenever he slipped into the city, entering his estate through the cellar from Darktown, he always had stacks of correspondence waiting for him. Most of it he would burn, as he had that first time he’d returned, scads of useless invitations and even more useless gossip. Some of it he read before burning. Some of it he didn’t burn.

The letter from Sebastian had remained in the drawer. Two more had been added to them over the years. When at last, deep into a bottle of wine, he’d opened them, he’d found them to be simple and to-the-point.

The first and second came from Sebastian’s seneschal, detailing the payment plan that would follow once Sebastian had regained his throne and the arrival of the first payment. The last had been in Sebastian’s own hand. It had accompanied the final payment on the loan. Sebastian had included interest, despite the terms he’d had Bran write up. There were several drops of ink at the end, above Sebastian’s elegant signature, as if he’d sat with quill poised above the parchment, contemplating some other words that he had not, in the end, added to the missive.

He’d discarded the addendum Bran had added, detailing how the interest had gone to improving conditions in Kirkwall’s alienage. He still had the letter, though, folded and carefully wrapped in oil cloth, stowed in one of his pouches, along with the little flag with the Vael crest.

Sometimes he ghosted in and out of Kirkwall with no one the wiser until they discovered the empty basket in the morning. Sometimes he’d stay for a day or two, long enough to sleep in his own bed and have a warm meal (or three) and reminisce about days gone by. Sometimes he even contemplated crossing the square, entering the Keep, and taking up his position again. Those thoughts never lasted long. Kirkwall was doing well without him. No need to revisit the attention he brought to the title, or bring further disaster down upon the city. It was better for everyone if he kept moving.

Whenever they left, Woof dragged his feet for a bit, whining sadly behind them, but after an hour or two on the road, the mabari regained his normal cheerful disposition, racing ahead to scout out more interesting things to smell.

“It’s better out here, isn’t it, boy?” Mal asked. “Just you and me, with a whole world to explore.”

Woof’s reply was muffled by the tangled ball of yarn he’d found somewhere, but Mal took it as a yes anyways.


	3. Chapter 3

**_9:44, The Winter Palace Courtyard_ **

The invitation to the Divine Conclave caught him by surprise. It shouldn’t have, though. He had been there at the start, after all. He’d almost tossed it into the fire unopened, but had changed his mind at the last second.

Not sure of the reception he’d receive, he left Woof in Kirkwall with Bodhan and Sandal. The mabari whined, ears flat and eyes huge, when Mal told him to stay. Even the promise of training with Aveline’s guards didn’t perk him up.

“I’ll be back soon, boy. I promise,” he told Woof.

When he presented himself at the gates to the Winter Palace, the guard who examined his papers looked down at them, then up at him, and blanched. He received stammered instructions on where to go and shortly thereafter found himself ensconced in a small but luxurious room in one of the guest wings.

Glancing at the board carried by the servant who’d led him through the halls, his heart had nearly stopped when he saw one of the names a little further down the list.  _ Prince Sebastian Vael and entourage. A suite and servants’ quarters. _

A checkmark had been placed next to Sebastian’s name. They weren’t housed in the same wing. Mal didn’t know if he was grateful or sorry.

After a quick wash, he ignored the clothes that had been provided for him and slid into his favorite leathers. If they wanted him here, they’d have to take him as is. He’d had enough of velvets and silks during his brief stint as Viscount.

With Kirkwall on his mind, it didn’t surprise him when he saw a familiar face in the crowd out in the courtyard.

“Bran! How’s my office looking nowadays?” Mal asked, clapping his old seneschal on the shoulder.

Bran spun around, all the color draining from his face as his eyes confirmed what his ears had told him. He gaped at Mal, wide-eyed, jaw working but no sound coming out.

“Stop torturing my seneschal, Mal.” Varric grinned up at him. “He might actually finally quit and then I’d be screwed.”

Varric looked good. Being a Viscount agreed with him.

“ _ Your  _ seneschal?” Mal couldn’t resist saying, just to tweak Bran again. Bran let out a little whimper, and it looked like he might faint. “Oh, yes. I heard something about you stealing my office.”

Varric laughed. “Well, you’re the one who left it lying around.”

“That I did.” Mal let it stand for another few seconds before holding his arms out. “So, where’s my hug?”

“I got your hug right here,” Varric replied, making an obscene gesture that drew shrieks out of several of the nearby gentry. Mal swore he heard his ribs creak when Varric threw his arms around him, and his feet left the ground for a second before Varric let go.

“Viscount Tethras! Such behavior!” When Mal addressed Varric with his title he saw Bran take a huge breath and let it out in one giant gust. They exchanged small talk for several minutes. He blinked in surprise when Varric mentioned that Orana now managed the Keep’s kitchens. She’d come a long way from the frightened slave girl he’d rescued.

“Bodhan sends his greetings, by the way, and asked me to tell you that your estate is still in good hands,” Varric said.

Good old Bodhan. He was getting on in years, and not as spry as he used to be, but his brain was still as sharp as ever. He’d still managed Mal’s affairs with a deft hand. If Mal ever decided to return to Kirkwall, he’d be in the cream for the rest of his life.

Mal might have stayed talking longer, but when the Inquisitor arrived, hand in hand with Cullen, he excused himself. He didn’t get away before Varric extracted a promise to meet with him later that evening.

“I brought wine. Lots of wine,” the dwarf said.

Bran’s heavy sigh had Mal grinning as he walked away.

He spent the rest of the day hiding in out-of-the way corners. There were too many people, too many unfamiliar faces. He’d been on the run for too many years, avoiding attention, for him to feel comfortable in such crowds. It had been long enough that descriptions of the Champion of Kirkwall had been blown all out of proportion and there was little chance he’d be recognized by anyone who hadn’t known him then, but there were enough of those he had known sprinkled through the assembled masses to keep him on his toes.

He almost walked right into Serendipity at one point. With Bran here, her presence shouldn’t have been a surprise, but he would never have expected to find her holding court in the middle of one of the Winter Palace’s rose gardens, lecturing on the varieties to be found there. Although he was sure she’d seen and recognized him, her only reaction was a twitch of one eyebrow, and she continued on without a pause.

Outside of the palace grounds a fair was in full swing. Mal fortified himself with food from several of the vendors there, in remembrance of many nights of drinking with his old friends.

When the sun began to near the horizon, he began his search. It didn’t take long. Varric had taken over a corner of the courtyard outside the Winter Palace, because he was Varric and no one would dare tell him he could not. He’d also, as expected, procured several cases of wine.

“You can still do that thing, can’t you?” Varric asked, holding out two bottles.

“How have you chilled your wine all these years without me?” Mal asked.

“With ice, like a normal person.”

“Ouch.” Mal grinned and Varric smirked back at him, waggling the bottles. With a flick of Mal’s finger the glass fogged and a crust of frost formed on the outside.

In ones and twos people trickled in. He recognized them all – the Inquisitor and her band of merry misfits. When Cullen appeared, he paused at seeing Mal, then proceeded forward, giving him a nod as he sat down next to Evelyn.

In the midst of this crowd, he felt lonely. He knew them all, but not like Varric did. The camaraderie they shared reminded him too much of evenings he’d spent with his own misfits, and he sipped at his wine as they exchanged stories, missing his own friends more keenly than he had in years.

It was a relief at first when he saw Sebastian making his way towards them, one of his own familiar faces. Then Sebastian smiled and the old pain hit him, not weakened one bit by all the years they’d been apart.

Surveying the crowd, Sebastian looked from face to face, seeming as lost as Mal felt. When his eyes fell on Mal, Mal forced a smile to his face and raised his goblet. That was a mistake. As soon as Sebastian had secured his own goblet, he came and sat next to Mal.

“I am glad to see you, my friend. It’s been too long.” 

_ Not long enough, _ Mal thought. His face felt frozen, grin fixed firmly in place. They’d crowded in together on several benches Varric had wrestled into place, and Sebastian’s thigh pressed against his, burning his skin through the fabric of their trousers. The weight of their years of friendship warred with the words they’d spoken at their last parting and an almost visible tension vibrated in the air between them.

The conversation around them rolled over them in waves and Mal tried to focus on it. Varric presided, drawing forth story after story from each of them. Mal had never been more grateful for how the dwarf loved the sound of his own voice. Their conversations grew louder as the wine flowed, and people kept refilling his glass. He knew he shouldn’t be drinking as much as he was, but he did anyway. Anything to dull the ache within and deaden him to the presence of the man beside him.

“I saw you, you know,” Sebastian said, as Bull was reciting a particularly spicy anecdote. His voice was soft enough that no one but Mal could hear them. “The day of my coronation. I thought I was imagining things, especially when you disappeared in the blink of an eye. But it was you, wasn’t it?”

“What if it was?” Mal took another drink of his wine, or tried to. He’d emptied his goblet without noticing. Assessing his current state, he decided another refill was unwise.

Sebastian didn’t seem to notice his state of inebriation. “I wish you’d stayed,” he said. “I would have loved to show you Starkhaven.”

“You were a bit busy at the moment.” If he did get up for a refill, though, he could not come back to this bench and this conversation. 

“I would have made time for you,” Sebastian said. 

Mal couldn’t keep from looking up and meeting Sebastian’s gaze. When Sebastian turned the full force of those blue eyes on him, his heart stopped. 

Varric saved him from coming up with a response. “So how about you, Choir Boy? No wedding bells yet?” Apparently even a crown wasn’t enough to dissuade Varric from using his nicknames.

“I have avoided them so far, yes,” Sebastian replied.

“But don’t you have an heir to produce?” Varric needled, winking at Sebastian.

“That may not be necessary. Remember that cousin of mine?”

“The one you said was a bit simple?” Mal asked.

Sebastian laughed, the rich, rolling peals that Mal remembered. His eyes still crinkled at the corners, too.

“That is the one. He is long married, and his children are far from simple. Very much so, in fact. I have taken his eldest under my wing, and barring any unsurmountable objections, I will be naming her my heir upon my return.”

“I’m sure you’re relieved. No more vultures circling in hopes of netting themselves a prince who’s desperate to procreate,” Varric said. 

Mal stared into his goblet, willing his heart to settle.

“Indeed. It is my desire, now that my family line is secure, to pursue a match of the heart.” Sebastian’s eyes flicked to the right, to where Mal sat, catching his gaze again.

Surprised, Mal froze. It felt like he was drowning in that brilliant blue. There was warmth there, directed at him. Or was that his imagination? He couldn’t let his mind worry at it. He had to stop torturing himself. All these years and he still hadn’t let go of this stupid infatuation.

“Hawke,” Sebastian started, then stopped, still holding Mal’s gaze. The moment stretched on between them, the world seeming to narrow down to the few inches that separated them.

It might have gone on forever if Varric hadn’t broken the mood.

“Will the two of you kiss already? You’re killing me here.” Varric sounded both amused and exasperated.

A brilliant flush washed across Sebastian’s face, and Mal swore. It was all too much. He rose, swaying a bit and steadying himself on the back of the bench. The wine had affected him even more than he’d realized. As he swayed, he realized it gave him the perfect reason to excuse himself.

“Where are you going, Hawke?” Varric asked. “The party isn’t over yet.”

“You know what wine does to me, Varric. If you’ll excuse me, I need to avail myself of the facilities.” He managed a bow without falling over, making a sweeping gesture with his goblet that encompassed them all, and left, carefully not looking at Sebastian as he did so. It turned out he could walk, even in his current condition. So walk he did — away and without another word.

“Diplomatic as always, my friend,” he heard Dorian say, but his feet took him away before he could hear Varric’s answer.

**9:34, Winter Palace Arbor**

Mal didn’t know where he was headed. His only destination was ‘away.’ It sounded like someone was trying to follow him, and he ducked and weaved between the various folk who still loitered in the courtyard. His drunken state hindered him only slightly, and may have actually helped him as he took unexpected turns in the crowds. Cutting through several of the outbuildings, he found himself in one of the alcoves, empty of people and shadows thick beneath the latticed trellises. Sagging back against one of the supports, he slid down until he hit the ground. 

It was there Sebastian found him, arms wrapped around his legs and face buried between his knees. The first he knew of it was when hands wrapped around his. When he looked up, it was to see Sebastian kneeling in the grass before him, his brow creased with worry. “Are you ill, or just hiding?” he asked.

Mal let out what might have been either a laugh or a sob. “Take your pick.”

“I’d guess hiding, because it wouldn’t be the first time, would it?” Sebastian favored him with a sad smile. “It was you. I know it was. The day of my coronation – there you were. And then there you weren’t. I would have thought I’d imagined it, but the guards who were on duty at the gate remembered you – the man who left in the midst of the celebration.”

“I didn’t know if I would be welcome,” Mal said, hating how small his voice sounded.

“Why wouldn’t you have been? It was thanks to you that I regained my throne. The coin you gave me... Bran told me, later, what you’d done. Where that coin had come from.”

“Well, I wasn’t doing anything with it,” Mal tried to protest.

Sebastian ignored him. “And when I think of how I treated you, and the things I said—”

Mal remembered that day. How it had felt when he’d cast his desk across the room. How Sebastian had looked as he staggered backward, not falling only because of the wall behind him. He remembered how bright the blood had been against Sebastian’s skin.

“I never apologized for throwing a desk at you.” Mal started to reach out, to caress Sebastian’s cheek, as if he could brush away the wound he had inflicted on his friend. Hesitating, he let his hand fall back to his knee.

Sebastian covered it with his own. “To be fair, you did not actually throw the desk  _ at _ me. And I have never apologized for saying the things that led you to throw the desk. Let me do so now.”

“No, you don’t have to. We’re good,” Mal protested.

“Are we?” Sebastian asked. “It seems to me we have unfinished business.”

The weight of Sebastian’s hand on his, the heat of his skin against Mal’s, was almost too much to bear. 

“Bran told me you repaid the loan,” said Mal, “and with interest you weren’t charged.” He could have moved his hand, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. It was such a small thing to keep him rooted in place, but he it felt couldn’t have dislodged Sebastian’s hand if he’d had all of Bethany’s abilities with force magics.

“That is not the business to which I am referring,” Sebastian said.

It was becoming harder to concentrate on words when Sebastian sat so close and his hand was so warm. Sebastian seemed to be unaware of his effect on Hawke as he continued to speak.

“I remember the first day I saw you as if it was yesterday. You were a stranger who had taken up my cause, and although you accepted payment, I could tell that was secondary to you. Your sympathy, your kindness, only made you more beautiful in my eyes.”

“You thought I was beautiful?” Mal couldn’t help but ask.

“Of course, Hawke.” Sebastian’s hand tightened on his own. “You sorely tempted me and I spent many hours in prayer.” He paused, blushing. “Do you know how often I looked for you at the Chantry? Every time the door opened, every time services began, I searched for your face. When you came, you kept your distance, as if by design, never close enough, always behind me so I could not watch you.”

“It was by design. So I could watch  _ you _ ,” Mal admitted.

“Aren’t we a pair of fools, then?” Sebastian asked, with one of his breathtaking smiles.

Mal laughed. “That we are.”

The laughter hung between them, the moment stretching on and on. Mal didn’t want to break it, and yet he did, if only to find out what might come next. Sebastian solved his dilemma for him.

“More fool, I, then, for what I spoke that last day before leaving Kirkwall. I said hateful things that day, in your office, Hawke – things I regret still. I took my pain and my anger at the loss of Elthina out on you, and undeservedly so.” Sebastian took a deep breath before continuing, still holding Mal’s hand and eyes, and his heart as well. “I would not be as I am if it were not for you, Hawke. Malcolm. Mal. For so many years you were there for me, and I took that for granted. I refused to let myself see, let myself feel, what your presence meant to me. I was afraid. I am not afraid any longer.” Sebastian’s hand tightened over his, warm and firm. “I still remember that day in the Chantry. I have thought about it often.”

“Which day is that?” Mal asked.

“When you told me you could think of several services I could perform for you.”

“Maker preserve me.” He remembered that day still, and his embarrassment after he’d spoken and the blush that had colored Sebastian’s cheeks. Those cheeks were flushed again, and he dared to hope it was for a different reason this time.

“He did, I believe,” Sebastian said. “How else could you have survived so much and come through it? You are a remarkable man, Mal, and I have always admired you. I have also always denied how you made me feel.”

Sebastian’s thumb caressed his knuckles and Mal felt his pulse quicken in response. “How I made you feel?” Mal asked.

Sebastian didn’t answer in words. Instead he leaned in. His movements were slow and deliberate, as if he thought Mal might object. When he stopped, hovering a breath away, Mal lost patience and closed the remaining distance. 

Sebastian’s lips were as soft as Mal had ever imagined. The merest brush of them against his made his blood sing. He could feel a tremble in Sebastian’s hands where they still held his as Sebastian’s lips parted.

“Oh, Mal,” Sebastian murmured. Mal must have been dreaming, because somehow, he found himself with an armful of prince. Sebastian had practically crawled into his lap, straddling him. His hands were buried in Mal’s hair and it seemed that he was intent on drawing all the breath from Mal’s lungs. His name fell from Sebastian’s lips and Mal responded in kind, pouring all his years of desperate longing into each repetition.

He could have stayed there all night, and all the next day, but Sebastian had more restraint. The sudden lack of warmth when Sebastian stood was tempered by his next words, and the hand he held out.

“Come. There are better places for this.” Sebastian stole another kiss after pulling Mal to his feet, then stepped backwards, drawing Mal along. “Follow me.”

To Mal’s amazement, Sebastian began scaling the lattice that covered the walls in the alcove. He hadn’t let role as prince make him soft, Mal thought, losing himself for a minute in admiration for the shapeliness of Sebastian’s ass in those velvet trousers before beginning the climb himself.

The paned doors of the balcony were locked, and Mal grinned as Sebastian slid a thin dagger from one boot. “Still keeping your hand in?” he asked as Sebastian worked the latch open.

“My unpredictability is part of my charm,” Sebastian replied with a wink. “Although my people have a different description for it.” The door popped open and he gestured Mal through.

The hallways were empty except for servants. They still ghosted through, slipping into alcoves or behind drapes whenever they heard footsteps. The tight confines of their hiding places inevitably led to more kissing, and although it delayed their reaching Sebastian’s suite, Mal could not find it in him to complain.

“There’s no sneaking here,” Sebastian warned him when they reached a set of opulent doors. Swinging them open, he swept in, Mal trailing in his wake. What looked like an army of servitors looked up at their arrival and immediately began clamoring for Sebastian’s attention. They all fell silent in the space of a breath when Sebastian held up a hand.

“I have important matters to discuss with the Champion of Kirkwall. See that we are not disturbed,” Sebastian said, command in his voice.

His people murmured a chorus of acknowledgements, bowing as Sebastian walked between them towards a second set of doors.

Mal did his best not to gawk at the rooms they passed through – his quarters were definitely for the second- or possibly third-rate guests. He caught some of Sebastian’s people eyeing him as he passed. One of them was the woman Mal had seen with Sebastian at his coronation. He swore she winked at him as she straightened from her bow, but she turned and started barking out orders before he could decide whether he’d been mistaken.

When Sebastian closed the doors behind them, they resumed where they’d left off. Mal’s fingers had become clumsy as he struggled with the buttons on Sebastian’s tunic, but he persevered, desperate to expose what lay beneath. Sebastian had no such troubles with them and undid them in record time, then turned his attentions to Mal’s when he was done. His shirt was silk, in sharp contrast to the worn cotton of Mal’s own, and Mal’s fingers snagged on the fabric as he pulled it loose. His hands slid along the plane of Sebastian’s back and the skin beneath his fingers put silk to shame.

He could spend the next age in Sebastian’s arms, memorizing the shape of him and discovering the range of sounds he could elicit. Sebastian had other ideas, though. He coaxed Mal backwards across the room until his legs hit the bed, then pushed him down on it and crawled over him.

“So, about those services?” Sebastian whispered in his ear. “What exactly did you have in mind?”

“I can still think of a few, if you’re interested,” Mal said.

“Is my interest not apparent?” Sebastian asked.

“Would you like me to start a list?”

“I’d prefer that you show me.”

“Well, first of all ….” Mal pushed himself up on one elbow, parting the front of Sebastian’s shirt with his other hand. Sebastian didn’t let him get any further. He’d barely exposed Sebastian’s skin when Sebastian retaliated, sliding Mal’s shirt off his shoulders and bestowing a line of kisses from the base of his jaw to his collarbone.

“Is that what you had in mind?” Sebastian murmured into his skin, raising the fine hairs at the base of his skull.

“Well, this isn’t exactly me showing you what’s on that list.” Mal’s voice trembled as he spoke. He didn’t care one bit.

“Perhaps I’d like to perform those acts on you.” Those sinful lips sucked their way along his collarbone, a counterpoint to his words, and Mal’s pants were beginning to become uncomfortably tight.

“Hard to show you like this.”

With his shirt half off and his tunic still fastened at the waist, Mal’s arms were effectively pinned to his sides. Instead of helping him take his clothing the rest of the way off, as he expected, instead Sebastian pushed and Mal fell backwards onto the bed with a startled squawk. It turned into a moan when Sebastian straddled him, the drag of cloth on cloth at his groin almost too much to bear as Sebastian leaned in, lips finding their way back to where he’d left off.

“Do you remember that night,” Sebastian said in between kisses, working his way down Hawke’s chest. “The night at the Hanged Man, after we’d returned from Chateau Haine. Do you remember what you were talking about?”

Hawke cast back, trying to recall the conversations they’d had. “Oh, no. Did you overhear…?” He couldn’t finish his question. If he’d been able, he would have buried his face in his hands.

“Your conversation with Isabela? Yes, I did.” Sebastian had continued to kiss his way downwards as he began to pull at the lacings of Mal’s trousers. “I could picture it so clearly, except it was my mouth on you and my fingers inside of you.” His hand found its target and Mal’s breath caught as those elegant fingers wrapped themselves around his cock. “My name on your lips,” Sebastian continued. “Your fingers in my hair.”

And as Sebastian spoke, he could picture it, his fingers buried in those auburn tresses, silky smooth between them, and he breathed Sebastian’s name like a prayer.

“I had to leave that evening. You weren’t mine and you never would be. You loved another and I had made my vows.”

The admission drew another shiver from him. “Did you think of me that night?” Mal gasped out as Sebastian’s lips found his most tender skin.

“That night and many others,” Sebastian said. “So many others. We’ve wasted so many years, Mal.”

“We’ll have to spend years making up for it then.” Mal would have said more, begun to let all the words that he’d bottled up spill out, but a clever twist of Sebastian’s hand stole his capacity to form them. It was beyond his imagining, what Sebastian began to do then. The mouth that had so enraptured him in the Chantry, singing hymns, was now put to a different kind of worship. Sebastian’s hair shone like rivers of molten copper between his fingers and the fire that sparked where Sebastian’s mouth enveloped him.

It didn’t take long, with months of abstinence and years of longing overcoming him in a rush. His whole world narrowed down to the point where their bodies met, pressure building and building within him. Sebastian ignored his warnings and drank him in, until Mal begged him to stop.

“That … that was ….” Mal gasped.

“Acceptable, I hope?”

“More than merely acceptable, on my end. But for you?”

Sebastian chuckled, breaking off as Mal tugged at the laces of his trousers. “I’m afraid the instant you touch me, I’ll burst,” he confessed. “It’s been so long.”

“How long?” Mal asked.

Instead of answering him, Sebastian kissed him again. He could taste himself on those blessed, wicked lips. He chased after it, as well as the moan that Sebastian uttered when his hand found Sebastian’s length at last, hard and hot in his palm.

Sebastian hadn’t been exaggerating, of the edge on which he hung. He spilled into Mal’s hand in mere seconds, gasping out Mal’s name as he came. The sheer suddenness of it caught Mal by surprise and he bit back a laugh, not wanting Sebastian to think he mocked him for it. Instead he smiled into Sebastian’s hair as Sebastian collapsed against him, shaking with the force of his release.

“That was both better and worse than I’d imagined,” Sebastian murmured once the tremors had left his body.

“How so?” Mal asked.

“Well, in my dreams, I gave a better account of myself.”

Mal did laugh now. It bubbled up from deep within and spilled out over them both, meeting an answering laugh of Sebastian’s. “There’s time,” Mal said. And there was, now.

**_9:44 Dragon, The Winter Palace, Sebastian’s Suite_ **

****

They dozed afterwards, locked in each other’s arms. How much time had passed, Mal had no way of knowing and didn’t care, but it must have been several hours, because he was woken suddenly by the sound of a throat clearing.

“Excuse me, your highness?” It was the woman he’d seen at Sebastian’s side in Starkhaven. She stood at an oblique angle, facing away from the bed, with her hands clasped behind her back, carefully not looking at them. “You are expected to attend the opera tonight. Should I make your excuses?”

“Yes, please,” Sebastian said.

“Very well, sire. Shall I arrange for breakfast to be brought in tomorrow morning?”

“That would be wonderful, yes.”

“Then if I may take my leave?”

At a careless wave of Sebastian’s hand, she made her way to the door of the suite. It wasn’t until she turned to close the doors behind her that she made eye contact with Mal at last. This time there was no mistaking the wink she gave him before she disappeared from sight.

“Marice’s father served mine as seneschal. We used to play together as children. It’s hard to be intimidated by your prince when you’ve dumped him in the frog pond,” Sebastian told him, fondness evident in his tone.

“Or seen him covered in demon guts,” Mal replied.Sebastian’s arms tightened around him.

“I nearly injured myself on one occasion, you know,” Sebastian said. “I would get distracted, watching you fight. It was like watching the most skilled of dancers.”

“I did the same,” Mal admitted. “Isabela had to knock some sense into me.”

Sebastian laughed. “I must have covered my lapses better.” Featherlight touches traced the scars on Mal’s ribs. “I hope none of these were my fault,” he said.

“No, those are due to my inability to duck,” said Mal.

“And these?” Sebastian asked, bestowing kiss after kiss on the ones that ran across his shoulder.

“Those were darkspawn, in the Deep Roads.”

“I wish I had been with you then,” Sebastian said.

“I’m glad you weren’t. If the taint had taken you as well as Carver…” Mal trailed off, not wanting to think about that any further.

Sebastian drew him closer still, his hands gentle as they now explored the scars that crisscrossed Mal’s back. “The years have not been kind to you, my love,” Sebastian said, and Mal’s head felt as light as the caresses against his skin, reeling from hearing those two words fall from Sebastian’s lips.

“Say that again,” Mal asked, still not believing this wasn’t all his imagination, another dream he was having while shivering in his bedroll in a camp he’d made for himself in the wilds.

“My love. My heart. My all,” Sebastian said, punctuating each pronouncement with a kiss, on shoulder, neck, and, at last, lips.

“So many years to make up for,” Mal said after they parted. “So much time lost.”

“But we do now have that time, my love. Tonight, tomorrow.” Sebastian’s voice turned to questioning: “And next week, and next month, and next year, I hope?” The words came in a rush and Mal had no chance to say the  _ yes  _ that hovered behind his lips. “Will you come back to Starkhaven with me?” Sebastian said. “I want to show you my city. I want to see if you can grow to love it as I do.”

“I already do love a part of it,” Mal said. Sebastian’s eyes grew even brighter. “Yes,” Mal said at last. “Yes, I will come back with you to Starkhaven. I do not wish to be parted from you again.“

**_9:46 Dragon, Starkhaven_ **

“Are you ready, my love?” Sebastian’s reflection appeared over Mal’s shoulder in the mirror. He looked as divine as ever. The white satin shot with gold helped, but he would still look like a slice of the Golden City clad only in rags.

Hands slid around his waist and Sebastian kissed the back of his neck, the hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“You’re going to wrinkle us,” Mal cautioned even as he leaned back into Sebastian’s embrace.

“Perish the thought.” Reaching up, Sebastian smoothed the front of Mal’s tunic and magically the sash he’d been struggling with fell into place. “Come. They’re waiting.”

Divine Victoria had given them her approval and woe to any who dared to object. She even presided over their wedding. When they’d first met, a marriage such as theirs never would have been sanctioned. Nobles across Thedas would have risen up at the thought of an apostate wedding a prince. But under Vivienne’s Chantry, things were much different than they had been, and although Mal wasn’t sure whether some of her changes were for the better or for the worse, he couldn’t object too strenuously, as they had allowed him this.

The ceremony was small and the crowd select. Interspersed among the nobles of Starkhaven that could not be excluded were familiar faces: they were all there, his friends and comrades, dressed in finery as he’d never seen them. Gamlen had shaved, Maker be praised, and Isabela had even deigned to put on pants for the occasion, even if they were so tightly tailored she might as well not have bothered. Even Woof sported a tooled leather collar shot with gold. He sat at the base of the stairs, his whole body shivering with excitement and the need to be still and quiet until the ceremony ended.

Tears pricked at the corners of Mal’s eyes as he imagined Carver and Leandra sitting next to Bethany in the pews. A voice swam up from his memories.  _ Prince Hawke. It has a nice ring to it, don’t you think? _

A finger caught the tear that spilled and he could see in Sebastian’s eyes that he knew what Mal was thinking.

“I wish my parents were here too,” Sebastian whispered as Vivienne began chanting the verses.

Afterwards, they rode together through the city, Sebastian on his white mount and Mal on a chestnut that shone like molten copper, with Woof practically dancing around them, able to let loose with happy barks at last. The mabari raced ahead, sending up flurries of the flower petals had been strewn before them, so thick Mal couldn’t see the pavement. More flowers rained down on them as they made their way through the streets. 

“I think they approve of you,” Sebastian told Mal, reaching out to take his hand. Mal might have objected, if it weren’t for the cheer that arose from this gesture.

Sebastian had asked for his hand in marriage shortly after they’d come to Starkhaven. Mal had put him off at first. now.  Before he became the prince’s consort he’d felt he needed to learn the city first, and let them learn of him as well. He might have delayed even longer, but Sebastian finally got tired of waiting, issuing a date at last like a royal decree.

As he raised Sebastian’s hand to his lips, the cheers redoubled.

“They love you,” Sebastian said, exaggerating the words so Mal could read them from his lips, for neither of them could hear the other in the crowds. And then: “I love you.”

“My love.” Mal squeezed Sebastian’s hand, unable to believe how much power those two words contained. It had taken them fifteen years to say them to each other. They’d made up for lost time, these last two, but they still had many more years ahead before they would begin to break even.

They’d neared the dais, the same one that Sebastian had used for his coronation, and every year since. Woof waited for them there, turning this way and that so the sun caught the gold in his collar, along with Marice and the rest of Sebastian’s inner circle.

“Shall we?” Sebastian asked as they reined their horses in. They had to let go of each other’s hand to dismount, but Sebastian claimed his again before they climbed the steps.

The deafening roars died to a whisper when Sebastian raised the hand not clasped in Mal’s. He waited only a few moments before speaking.

What he said, Mal couldn’t remember afterwards. What he did remember was how the light shone in Sebastian’s hair, highlighting the first strands of grey. The mirrors in Starkhaven had shown him his smattering of white had turned into wings at his temples. Sebastian had called it ‘distinguished.’ He’d cracked a joke about getting old, and then Sebastian had started talking about growing old together, and not much more in the way of talking had happened that evening.

He still couldn’t believe it. Even standing here next to Sebastian, hand-in-hand, with matching rings on their fingers, it still didn’t seem real. It was a dream, or a vision from a desire demon. It had been fifteen years ago that he’d first seen Sebastian in the Chantry. In all his wildest imaginings, he’d never pictured anything like this. Surreptitiously, he pinched himself, but nothing changed.

“Shall we greet our people, my love?” Sebastian asked him. He didn’t wait for Mal to answer. Stepping forward, he raised their clasped hands and the crowd’s cheers reached new heights. “People of Starkhaven, my consort!” he shouted, his words magically amplified across the square, and impossibly, the crowd grew even louder in response.

Mal had a speech memorized. Marice had helped him write it. And by ‘helping’, that meant she’d taken his sparse words and turned it into a masterpiece of eloquence. He got through it without stumbling, in part because of his death grip on Sebastian, and let out a sigh of relief at the end. Sebastian kissed him again, to a backdrop of thunderous applause.

“I still feel like I’m dreaming,” Mal whispered against Sebastian’s lips.

“Shall I pinch you?” Sebastian asked, mischief dancing in his eyes.

“Maybe later,” Mal said. They had later, now.

“Later,” Sebastian promised. “But first, your feast!”

Mal had become accustomed to, if not comfortable with, feasting with nobles after reclaiming the Amell estate, but the grand scale of royal banquets still gave him pause. He always remembered the months in Gamlen’s cramped hovel, scraping the mold off the wheel of cheese in the corner and giving Bethany some of his bread even though his own stomach was trying to crawl up his throat and bite his nose off.

Unlike the feasts in Kirkwall, none of this food would go to waste. It would be distributed through the city afterwards.

It was a tradition at wedding feasts, Mal had been warned, that the newly wedded couple were expected to kiss when guests tapped their knives against their goblets. Nervous titters escaped scandalized lips when Isabela proclaimed, “My mother kissed me better than that!” But Mal didn’t dare more. Even after all these months, the kisses they’d so long denied each other still made his blood sing, and it would be hours still until they could retire.

Finally the last speech had been given and the last palm pressed and they proceeded through the hall to raucous cheers and whistles. Mal had only a moment’s notice when they reached the doors to the hall, warned by the flash of mischief in Sebastian’s eyes as Sebastian pulled him close and gave him a kiss that met even Isabela’s licentious standards.

“Put that in your next book, Varric,” Mal heard her roar as they made their escape down the hall.

They had shared Sebastian’s quarters since he had first come to Starkhaven and Mal had expected they would spend their wedding night there as well, but when they reached the corridor Sebastian pulled him to the left, away from the doors to his suite.

“This way,” he said, pulling Mal by the hand to a second set of doors. They had been Sebastian’s mother’s rooms, Mal knew, untouched since his parents’ murders. He had no idea what to expect when Sebastian opened the doors and yet what he saw still surprised him.

Painted on the walls were familiar landscapes. Along one wall, he saw the mountains and forests that had lined Lothering’s horizon. On the opposite wall, Hightown’s skyline had been limned, with the Hawke estate front and center. The third wall was taken up by large wardrobes and a desk, with a pallet piled with blankets for Woof between them. This wall was painted above with warm colors, depicting sunrise over Sundermount, and the fourth was all glass doors that led out to a balcony, with heavy drapes tied to the sides and sheers fluttering in the evening breeze.

“When …?” he started, but couldn’t finish.

“Whenever you were out,” Sebastian said. “The workmen have been quartered here for the last six months. I thought to have them work at night as well, but you sleep so lightly. They still finished with time to spare.” Drawing Mal further into the room, he said, “I wanted you to feel at home here.”

Home. Mal had lived in so many places, and there were few of them he’d grown to call home. Lothering, the first, seemed a lifetime ago. With all his years in Kirkwall, he had so many memories, but sometimes the good ones couldn’t overcome the bad.

There had been places he could have called home if he’d chosen to stay – Isabela’s ship, Weisshaupt. Neither of these had called to him and he’d left, with regrets, but still moved on. But now, he had this. He spun in place, nearly making himself dizzy as he tried to take it all in.

“Do you like it?” Sebastian asked. 

Mal felt tears prickle at the corners of his eyes. Wiping them away, he nodded, still at a loss for words.

“It’s incredible,” Mal said at last. “You’re incredible. I still can’t believe…” He trailed off, and Sebastian took his hand, breath warm against Mal’s knuckles as he raised it to his lips.

“Believe that I love you,” Sebastian told him, and Mal did, even as a part of him still insisted this was a dream.

“The first time I saw you, I thought you were proof the Maker existed,” Mal said. It was gratifying to see he could still make Sebastian blush.

“And now?” Sebastian asked.

Instead of answering with words, Mal drew him close. The fire that Sebastian had lit within him earlier rekindled as he tasted their wedding wine on Sebastian’s lips.

“My love,” Sebastian murmured.

“Say it again?” Mal asked.

Sebastian laughed. “As often as you like, my love.”

“I’m never going to tire of hearing that, I should warn you.”

“I am never going to tire of saying it, I promise,” Sebastian said.

“Say it again?” Mal demanded, bestowing a kiss on Sebastian’s forehead.

“My love.”

“And again?” And Mal brushed his lips, featherlight, across Sebastian’s cheek.

“My love.”

“And again?” This time, before Sebastian could reply, Mal captured his lips, drinking the words from them, and there was no more speech for a time.

Later, as they drifted off to sleep, wrapped in each other’s arms, those were the last words that chased Mal into his dreams.

_ My love… _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few screenshots of Mal to close things off:

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you want to say hi, [check out my profile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewightknight/profile) for where I’m currently hanging out on this here internet thing. If you liked this, please share! Kudos are love and comments are always appreciated.


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